The Lay of the Land
by amerally
Summary: Arrogant. Brilliant. Impossibly sexy. It's Derek Wills, and he might have finally met his match. Comments welcome!
1. Chapter 1

I swear, the next facepalm I made wasn't just going to be a mental one. There was nothing more aggravating than making small talk with self-important, privileged idiots. And the room was full of them.

I know that my editor in chief thought she was doing me a big favor by giving me her invitation to this arts benefit gala. And she certainly was. I just wasn't in the mood for it tonight. The place was swarming with powerful connections, only I had to navigate through the fabulously empty-headed heirs and heiresses to reach the ones capable of intelligent conversation.

_Ugh._ I realized the voice in my head was sounding just as smug as the objects of my derision. I must have outwardly shown my self-disgust – maybe a slight shake of my head or an eye roll – because the next thing I knew, there was a deep voice at my side.

"Insufferable, aren't they?"

With the blush of the guilty, I turned to find a tall man who had invaded my personal space. I took a half-step back and looked up into a pair of cool green eyes. Beneath his stylishly messy hair and close-cropped scruff, his face was refined but undoubtedly masculine. A slight smirk played on his lips as he peered down at me.

Tall, dark and most decidedly handsome. … _You can invade my personal space anytime_, a thought I quickly shooed away.

"It never ceases to amaze me how so many patrons of the arts can be such prats," his British accent was couched in an easy, low, rumbling voice.

"Mmm," I responded noncommittally as I gazed back at the crowded room. I wasn't about to put my foot in my mouth by maligning these people to someone who was possibly one of their own. It would be bad form, regardless.

"Derek Wills," he dropped his conspiratorial tone and stuck out his hand.

As I took his smooth, warm hand, I was careful not to betray my delight at being face to face with the brilliant director. I had heard all about him and his work, of course, but had never actually laid eyes on him. Everybody said he was handsome, but _dear God_.

"Marla Bradley," I replied with a smile before I let go of his hand. "So, Derek Wills," I spoke lightly. "What do you know? I saw _Allies_ for the first time just the other day."

"And?"

"I admire your films," I spoke carefully, wanting to express sincere praise without gushing. "I really do. They're edgy but subtle at the same time. Not to mention the fact that you manage to cast some fantastic eye candy."

His smirky chuckle seemed genuine – a welcome sound in a room lacking of much anything genuine.

"So what is it that you do?"

"Magazine editing," I replied, casually sipping from my champagne glass.

As we stood there pleasantly bantering, my mind was in overdrive reviewing what I knew of this man. The son of a Broadway directorial legend, Wills had also established himself as a Broadway legend. In more ways than one.

I could plainly see how easy it must have been for him to earn his notoriety as Broadway's Bed Boy. With his charm and rakish good looks, bedding his leading ladies – and a whole lot of other women about town – probably required minimal effort on his part.

The arts-and-culture editors at the office reveled in the dirty joke fodder that Wills consistently provided them. In fact, just last week one of them had anointed him Wills the Great White Way Wanker. Then there was the Casting-Couch Coach. My all-time favorite? The Theatre District Diva Diver. I was suddenly amused by the alliteration that went into his nicknames.

"What's so funny?"

The question startled me from my thoughts. Luckily, his question wasn't an accusation – he seemed almost as amused as I was. In fact, his eyes actually seemed to be _twinkling_. What an exquisite flirt.

"It's nothing, really," I waved it off, and as a quick recovery I grasped the most obvious topic at hand. "So, tell me about your current show. _Bombshell_, is it?"

"You haven't seen it?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"And why not, pray tell?" he pressed playfully.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't care for all that bursting out into song," I replied, taking another quick sip. "Although I must admit that I can endure a musical on stage much less painfully than one on film. And _showtunes_ – I can't help but cringe. I don't know – Broadway is just so … _broad_."

"Highbrow, I see," he raised his brows and cocked his head as he teased.

"Oh, I know I sound like a snob. I mean no disrespect. Really, I enjoy all of the 'brows' – Broadway just isn't my kind of 'brow.'"

"You really should check out _Bombshell_. I've attempted to apply some of that edge and subtlety you mentioned into this show. It's really quite good."

The show had raked in rave reviews, and it was practically a shoo-in for this year's Best Musical Tony, among a load of other Bests. So the "quite good" claim was an understatement that reeked of ridiculously false humility.

He was so … _cocksure_. In every sense of the word. I had to stifle a giggle. God, I really needed to lay off the champagne.

"May I have your card?" he now was asking. "I can have a ticket sent to your office."

"No, no, really," I countered pleasantly. "That's OK. I don't cover the Broadway beat and have no particular influence over the staff that does—"

"This wouldn't be a professional outing. I was actually intending it to be personal. I'd relish the honor of accompanying you and suffering your biting critique firsthand."

_Oh, God._ I managed to smile at his playful jab, but my mind was racing. I couldn't have him contacting me at the office – or anywhere else, for that matter. There's no telling what nicknames _I_ would acquire if my colleagues got wind that I was socializing with the Cocky Casting-Couch Coach. I was gunning to be the next editor in chief, and becoming the laughingstock of the staff certainly wouldn't further that cause.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I groaned, making a show of fumbling a bit with my handbag. "I don't have my cards with me tonight."

If he suspected my lie, he didn't indicate it. He opened his mouth to say something more, but before he could get out a word, I was rescued.

"Marla!"

"Charles!" I responded – somewhat overenthusiastically – to my former colleague who seemed to materialize out of nowhere and take me into a friendly hug.

"Would you mind if I stole this lovely lady from you so we can talk a little shop?" Charles asked, his arm around my shoulders. Wills slightly bowed his head and gestured graciously with his champagne glass.

"It was so nice to meet you," I smiled at Wills as Charles began to lead me away.

"My pleasure," he nodded politely and smiled back.

"It's so great to see you!" Charles gushed as we walked away.

_Oh, Charles, you have no idea._


	2. Chapter 2

"So you weren't exaggerating. You really _can't_ tolerate Broadway, can you?"

I was startled to look up from my laptop and find Derek Wills standing over me, his arms crossed over his chest, his signature smirk on full display.

He was dressed in a sveltely fitting exercise shirt and shorts. His lack of hair product and abundance of perspiration were evidence that he had been running. But for God's sake – how could anyone look _this good_ in the middle of a workout?

"Well, hello there." Caught completely off guard, I didn't know what else to say.

It had been almost a month since that gala, and Derek Wills had been the furthest thing from my mind. Well, at least after I had quickly disposed of the _Bombshell_ ticket that had found its way into my office mailbox. I'm sure it didn't take much sleuthing for Wills' assistant to obtain the magazine's mailing address.

When I had opened the envelope and saw the VIP ticket inside, I briefly considered gifting it to my assistant. Fortunately, I immediately saved myself from such a stupid mistake. My assistant – or anyone I remotely knew – sitting next to Derek Wills at the performance? The ticket was quickly at the bottom of my office trash can, torn into pieces.

So here I was, trying to get a little work done on a Saturday afternoon in Central Park and most unexpectedly, Derek Wills was once again in my mind – and my _presence_, no less.

"You know," Wills smoothly seated himself – uninvited – on my bench. "It had been a long time since I'd been stood up."

His tone seemed teasing, but you could never be sure about someone who worked with actors.

"What are you talking about?" I wasn't a bad liar myself. It's not something I'm exactly proud of, but convincing lying skills are pretty much a prerequisite in my professional world, too.

"I had a ticket to my show sent to you," he turned and eyed me with playful suspicion. "Didn't you get it?"

"I'm afraid not. One of the sneaky mailroom guys must have snagged it."

"Oh, I can testify that they are definitely _not_ guilty as charged," he laughed. "I would have noticed if some burly bloke had shown up that night to be my date."

I didn't like his use of the word "date."

A sinking feeling was beginning to creep over me. Polite lies were one thing. They were a relatively painless way to remove yourself and the other person from an uncomfortable, unwanted situation. But when polite lies weren't picked up on – or they were decisively ignored – it was time to get rude. And I hated being rude – a persistent weakness of mine, especially in my line of work – but I was afraid I'd have to be if this guy began any kind of pursuit.

Yes, he was impossibly good looking and charming. Yes, he was brilliant and talented. Yes, he was loaded and well-known and lived in a glamorous world far from mine. But a short-lived dalliance with all of that wasn't enough for me to risk derailing my professional reputation.

_Well, I'm certainly being ridiculous_, I taunted myself. _This guy screws stars. A little rejection from somebody like me will probably cause him nothing more than a chuckle. _

"So what are you working on there?"

Thank God he changed the subject.

"It's a feature on David Vander, you know, one of the key Wall Street creeps caught up in the 2008 meltdown," I vaguely gestured at the laptop screen as I spoke. "It's been a bit of a struggle for me to edit, actually. The writer did a dismal job on it, and it's usually easier for me to rewrite a story than kick it back. But all the financial gobbledygook is making my head spin…."

"Interesting," Wills mused. "I have a friend who you might be able to use as a source, or at least a _resource_ to help you better understand all that 'gobbledygook.'"

I waited for him to continue.

"You might have heard of her. Eileen Rand? She's the producer for _Bombshell_?" After a beat, Wills continued, "Oh, wait, that's right. You _wouldn't_ know of her. Considering how you avoid my show like the plague…."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Touché."

"Anyway," he continued more seriously. "Eileen has loads of financial world connections, and she's held my hand many times through the years when it came to the fiscal dealings of our productions. I've learned a lot from her.

"In fact," he casually laid his arm along the back of the bench between us. "I'm meeting her tonight for drinks. Why don't you join us?"

"Really?" The word sounded more like a doubtful statement than a question. I was having a hard time believing that he just _happened_ to be meeting his producer tonight. A connection who could so conveniently be of professional use to me.

"Yes, _really_," he was amused again. For some reason, his amusement slightly annoyed me. It was as if he could read my thoughts, and the fact that he already had my number made me feel a bit inferior.

Honestly, I don't think I'd met anyone who was so confident, so assertive, so _cocksure_. There was that word again. It just so perfectly fit him.

And something else annoying me was the fact that I couldn't quite seem to get _his_ number. With his reputation as a ruthless womanizer, I couldn't help but suspect he was trying to lure me. But then again, he probably had a date with Kristin Chenoweth tomorrow night, so why in the world would he bother with _me_?

Maybe he really was just being nice. After all, our meeting here in Central Park was obviously serendipitous.

And I could certainly use the tutoring from an Upper West Side power player like Eileen Rand.

"Oh, all right." My consent must have come out as more of a groan than I intended.

"You already sound so full of regret," his tone was light but his expression … not so much. "At least first let me give you a reason for it."

"Of course," I gave him an apologetic smile. "That's the least I could do."

* * *

_So he asked me to at least have a reason for my regret…_. After I later mulled over his remark, I was back at square one with my suspicions. Why would he care what I thought? Obviously, he really didn't. He was probably just trying to bag himself an easy one.

Well, I was taking the bait just on the off chance I would get to speak with a real-live New York financial whiz. What's the worst that could happen?

When I walked through the doors to the bar that evening, I half-expected Wills to be there by himself, armed with some cockamamie story about his producer having to cancel on him at the last minute. But, no, there she was, sitting right there next to him.

So either he wasn't a liar – at least in this particular instance regarding his evening plans – or he had called in a last-minute favor from his friend. There was no way to know, so I just shook it off. Flirtation was probably simply second nature to him, and I could use some words of financial wisdom for my article.

"Perfect timing," Wills stood as I approached the table. "We just finished our shop talk for the evening, so now Ms. Rand is all yours."

He made a cute little dramatic flourish as he gestured to Eileen.

"Marla Bradley, this is Eileen Rand. Eileen, Marla."

Eileen reached across the table and took my hand in a cordial shake as she smiled, "So nice to meet you."

There was a natural warmth about her that made me feel comfortable immediately. I could already tell that I was going to like her.

The next hour progressed rapidly, with Eileen fielding what were probably stupidly basic questions from me. She was patient and thorough in her explanations, and I didn't detect even a whiff of condescension from her the entire time.

Throughout our Q&A session, Wills mostly sat quietly and listened. I knew he was listening because he actually laughed at our occasional jokes. He also kept us well-supplied with beers as we talked.

"Please, let me buy you a cocktail," I said to Eileen as we wrapped up our discussion. "It's the least I can do."

"_Oh, no_," Wills held up his hands in mock warning, "Eileen is dangerous with the cocktails."

"Can't hold your liquor?" I teased her. "I wouldn't think that possible with someone in the entertainment industry."

"No," Eileen rolled her eyes with a chuckle. "That's _not_ what he means. He knows full well that I can hold my own with the best of them. I date a _bartender_, for God's sake. No, Derek's referring to a certain tossing action I used to frequently make with cocktails – into the face of my ex."

I burst out laughing. Suddenly, the fierce side of this gracious, lovely lady was as plain as day. With what she did for a living, she obviously suffered no fools.

"And this one here," Eileen casually gestured toward Derek without looking at him. "He almost met the same fate a few times while we were trying to get _Bombshell_ up and running."

I burst out laughing again. "_This_ man? This perfectly gracious gentleman sitting right here?"

"You haven't seen him in rehearsal." It was obvious that Eileen was being playful, but I could tell she wasn't entirely joking.

"I _have_ to be bastard to get the best out of those divas," Derek whined in self-defense.

"Takes one to know one," Eileen retorted.

"Which? A bastard or a diva?" I interjected.

Eileen and Derek laughed as they chorused, "Both!"

"So," I leaned forward, a little conspiratorially. "Are you two cooking up a little something new for Derek to be a bastard diva with?"

They both laughed again.

"Just a _little_ something," Eileen acknowledged after a quick wink at Derek. "After the heart attacks we both nearly had while getting _Bombshell_ on Broadway, we don't want to do any more heavy lifting for a long time."

"What can you spill?" I pressed. "Off the record, of course. This is just my personal curiosity interrogating you."

"It's something you might actually approve of," Derek replied sarcastically, with a sniff. "A _play_. A _classic_, at that."

"Oh, so we have a musical hater in our midst?" Eileen eyed me with exaggerated disapproval.

Before I could retort, Derek jumped in: "She hates them _so much_, in fact, she stood me up just to avoid having to sit through our magnum opus."

"_Really?_" Eileen replied, but she turned her attention to Derek instead of me. "The Great Derek Wills got stood up?"

"Not really," I rescued Derek from his own backfire, and he gave me a smirk. "So, what's the play?"

"Ibsen's _A Doll's House_," he said.

"That's actually one of my favorites."

"Glad to hear it," he responded after a sip of his Scotch. "Then maybe you won't stand me up for it."

"Maybe. Maybe not," I teased. "So you don't consider a major play on Broadway to be 'heavy lifting'?"

"Gods, no," Derek replied. "The script is written; the choreography – stage directions, if you will – are ready made; there are no sodding songs to deal with – or sodding song _writers_, either…." He glanced at Eileen out of the corner of his eye before he continued. "It's a bloody _holiday_ for me."

After a few more minutes of chatting about their latest project, Derek excused himself to head off to the restroom.

Eileen gazed at his retreating back with a pensive smile on her lips.

"That man," she spoke wistfully. "We've been through a lot together over the years."

"I can imagine."

"We complain that _Bombshell_ nearly did us in, but we've both come away from it much better individuals," Eileen smiled at me. "Especially him. I've seen him make some remarkable changes."

I just smiled back. I had no idea what she meant, but I wasn't about to ask her to explain.

Derek was soon back at the table.

"I'm afraid I need to get going," Eileen made a move to get up. "I have an early day tomorrow. What else but meeting with investors?"

_This is it_, I thought as a slight discomfort returned. _Now Derek and I will be alone_.

"I need to get going as well," Derek chimed in as he politely pulled Eileen's chair back for her and reached for mine. "I need to sort out some last-minute work tonight."

I smiled, not betraying my surprise at this turn of events. The perfect opportunity had presented itself, but he wasn't going to try to get me alone after all. And I had even knocked back a few too many drinks.

But then, as we started to shrug on jackets and shoulder bags, Derek spoke casually, "You two seemed to really get on well tonight. Why don't we all meet for dinner tomorrow?" he suggested. "Eileen, you and I will need to briefly discuss how your meeting went, anyway."

He then turned to me, "And you might think of more questions for the finance lady guru between now and then. I promise, I won't take too much of her time."

_Smooth_. At least I thought he was being smooth. Who the hell knew with this guy?

Well, no matter how things progressed or deteriorated from here, one thing was certain: I wanted to keep Eileen Rand as a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much to those of you who have commented and sent me private messages. I really appreciate your thoughts and encouragement!**

* * *

I had never agonized so much before over what to wear to a dinner.

What signal was I trying to give? What signal was I _not_ trying to give? Last night had been easy – we'd just met at that casual bar, but tonight was an entirely different situation.

I finally settled on a little black number. Not flashy, not too sexy, but sexy enough. A little black dress … I was a walking cliché.

_Oh, what did it matter? _Thoughts ricocheted in my head all the way to the restaurant, prolonging the agony that had started in my clothes closet. Was I attracted enough to this guy to again risk being seen with him, even with a third party? What did he really want from me, anyway?

I was irritated by the emotional rollercoaster I had let him put me on. I even tried convincing myself that I was only going to this dinner for the chance to hang out with Eileen again.

Well, I was about to find out just how much Eileen fit into the picture. When I arrived at the restaurant, Derek rose from the table and greeted me with the announcement that Eileen had had to cancel at the last minute. What a surprise.

So _was_ this a set up? There were three place settings at the table. A bait-and-switch most likely wasn't beneath Derek, but you'd think it would be beneath Eileen. But who really knew?

As Derek pulled out a chair and seated me at the elegant table, I could only think, _What if we're seen together?_

I've always prided myself on being able to keep my cool under most circumstances, so I drew on this strength as we eased into pleasant conversation.

Without Eileen to focus on, I was forced to focus on Derek. Something I most definitely didn't want to do.

He was so impossibly charming and handsome, the allure was difficult to resist. So far, I had blocked and combatted and turned my back on it with reasonable success.

But now … sitting here at the table with him alone and face to face, I was overcome with an attraction to him that I wasn't sure I had the will to fight at the moment.

_Oh, God_ … the meticulously untamed hair, the scruff, the voice. The quick wit, the depth, the attentiveness. And that classy scarf.… I hadn't been so befuddled by a man in a very long time. Befuddled because I just didn't know if I wanted to take this plunge. If the man didn't have such a nasty reputation, there wouldn't have been any question of my interest.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"What?" I blurted, mentally kicking myself for not recovering more gracefully.

"You keep glancing round as if you're expecting someone," Derek gazed past me as he took a sip of wine. As he set his glass back down, he looked at me directly. "Or perhaps you're apprehensive about someone _unexpected_ showing up?"

Had my discomfort been that obvious? Our conversation had been easy and interesting and fun. But this man was a professional director, so his powers of observation and nuance detection were extraordinary.

I wondered if he knew what I was anxious about. His reputation certainly preceded him. But maybe he thought I had a significant other who I didn't want finding out that my business dinner had turned into a … date.

It was at this moment that I knew I had to make up my mind. Either go with it or walk away. My indecision was driving me crazy. And exhausting me. It was ridiculous to allow a man to put me through such mental and emotional contortions.

As I sidestepped his question and our pleasant conversation resumed, my mind became an analysis machine running in the background.

_With the arts-and-culture editors on the prowl around Derek's territory, it's only a matter of time before we're found out._

Maybe not. New York is a big city, after all. And so what if they do run across us?

_I'm going to become the office punch line. I can hear it now: Wills' Willing Woman, Derek's Derring-Do, Broadway's Broad Way._…

What do I care? The relationship as well as the jokes would have a very short shelf life. I can take it for a great lay. And it's been a while since I've had a really good lay, something I would be more than guaranteed with Broadway's Bed Boy.

_No one will respect me. My judgment will come into question, and I'll be passed over for that promotion_.

Bitch, please. As if I'm the only one in the office who leads a questionable private life. At least my bad judgment involves someone wildly successful. And brilliant. And need I say it? Very, very hot.

_After his conquest, he'll probably be interested in screwing me a few more times, then his calls will become spaced further and further apart until he never calls again._

Fine by me. Derek Wills isn't long-term relationship material. I'll just get from him what he gets from me: a fantastic fuck.

OK. That was it. My mind was made up, and there was no looking back.

* * *

Now that I was relaxed, our conversation was even more comfortable. We shared many interests and points of view, and whatever we disagreed on, we bantered about playfully and at times maybe not so playfully.

Derek was astonishingly blunt at times, brazenly stating his unrequested opinions, but I could dish it right back whenever necessary. He could also be astonishingly arrogant, especially when it came to his career. Instead of letting that annoy me, though, I took it as an amusing challenge to find a way to take him down a few notches.

In general, Derek kept me on my toes, and I liked that.

Before I knew it, the wait staff seemed to suddenly be hanging around our table like vultures. Realizing the ungodly hour, we noticed the restaurant was deserted except for us.

"We're beginning to stink up the joint," Derek muttered to me, and sharing a low laugh, we stood up. One of the wait staff was there instantaneously to hand us our coats.

"Your coat!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself.

"Yes?" he halted in mid shrug of putting it on.

His coat. It was an ankle-length, black wool getup. It was … a bit much.

"It's … well, it's very … befitting a director," I struggled for a recovery.

"What, _dramatic?_"

"I was thinking more along the lines of _dramaculous_."

For the first time, I saw Derek's face erupt into a full-blown laugh. He even showed his teeth, something I had noticed he almost never did when laughing or smiling.

Thank God. I honestly hadn't meant to steer into wardrobe insults.

"I've been told that it's rather Dr. Whovian," he was still giving me a toothy grin as he now shrugged the coat fully on.

"Like I said …"

My retort earned a fresh chuckle from him. Then he offered me his arm and said, "Let the good doctor hail you a cab."

As we headed outside, I was slightly disappointed that the good doctor wasn't offering to hail a cab for _us_. A shared ride would give him ample opportunity to invite me up for a nightcap. I wasn't one much for playing games, but it looked like this was going to take a little longer than I'd anticipated.

With one hand casually dipped in a pants pocket, Derek stepped to the edge of the curb and raised his other hand to wave down an approaching taxi.

As the cab pulled over, Derek turned to me, leaning a little sideways with both hands now in his pants pockets. In this stance, with the dramaculous coat framing him, he was a supreme vision of dorky adorability. Something a bit unexpected from a suave Broadway mover and shaker.

"May I have your number?" he asked. "I'd like to phone you, if that's all right, and I'm sure you're not carrying your cards again tonight."

I laughed. It seemed like he could never say anything completely nice without getting at least a little jab in there.

As I rattled off my number, he pulled out his cell phone and punched it in. Then he hit the call button and actually waited for it to ring in my purse.

"Checking my facts?" I guffawed at his audacity.

"Well, surely you can't blame me," he sweetly smirked, something that only he could manage. "You _have_ been a bit elusive."

I just laughed as he opened the cab door for me and I stepped inside. He shut the door after me and gave a slight, cheerful wave as the taxi pulled away. I settled back into the seat.

_Hmph_. He's probably only interested _because_ I was "elusive."


	4. Chapter 4

He called me two days later. And his suggestion was most unexpected.

Would I like to go for a "ramble" at Hudson Highlands Park?

It wasn't just the activity that surprised me. Granted, I couldn't imagine the big-time director engaged in any dating activities that didn't involve food, drink or the arts. But what really surprised me was the time commitment involved. The park was way outside the city, and the drive alone would take about three hours round-trip.

I was surprised, but that didn't keep me from accepting his invitation. Why not? I could use a nice break from the city, and the thought of spending all that time with Derek … well, he was really interesting and entertaining company, not to mention easy on the eyes.

On Saturday morning, he pulled up outside my apartment building in a silver Jaguar. I'm not good with car models, so I wasn't sure what it was exactly, but it was sleek and sexy. Exactly what Derek Wills would drive.

"Nice ride," I remarked as he opened the passenger-side door for me.

"I hired it for the day."

As he got in on the driver's side, he said, "I thought about hiring a convertible, but we'll be on the highway, which would make for a loud and messy ride."

"Meh. I've never been one for convertibles anyway," I replied. "Convertibles and Julia Roberts: two things in life that are definitely overrated."

He laughed. "I would have to throw in Cameron Diaz as well."

I wondered if he was referring only to her acting ability.

"So are you sure you're OK driving on the right side of the road?" I teased as he pulled out into traffic.

"You mean the _wrong_ side of the road?"

"I'm surprised you even know how to drive, being a Londoner-slash-New-Yorker and all."

"Well, true to your words 'and all,' I _have_ spent a lot of time in various other places that would require such skills."

"Such as?"

"For one thing, my films were shot in locations like the South of France, upstate New York and _Texas_, of all places," he rattled off. "Plus, I just like having the option of making a quick getaway should I need to."

_Sounds about right_, I mused to myself.

I enjoyed the advantage I held over him as we drove. He had to keep his eyes on the road while I could openly check him out. He was sporting an uncharacteristically rustic look today, of course, with a t-shirt, jeans, hiking boots and less-than-usual hair product, but there was still a touch of style. The jeans fit nicely, he wore a leather jacket – and there was that scarf again. The man couldn't help but be goddammed dashing in any setting.

We talked virtually nonstop on the drive and when we first hit the trail at the park, but we now experienced comfortable silences here and there as the trail became more demanding in places.

During the silences I puzzled over the situation. I still thought this was an over-the-top prelude to something that certainly could have been achieved simply by dinner and a few drinks. By now, he's fully aware that I'm interested – and willing – so for him to spend an entire day with me was … well, puzzling.

"It's called 'Breakneck Ridge Trail' for a reason," he remarked as my hard breathing became audible. "But the views of the Hudson from up there are worth it. They're breath-taking."

"Breath-taking is right," I retorted with a little laugh. "I don't have time to build up my cardio by running in Central Park regularly like you do, you know."

A little farther up the trail, he offered a hand to help me up a particularly steep incline. I was perfectly capable of making it on my own, but I took his hand to be polite. After we got to the incline's plateau, I went to let go of his hand, but he held on. I let him.

This was our first real physical contact – we hadn't yet exchanged as much as a peck on the cheek, so I couldn't help but feel a little giddy – which in turn made me feel a little silly. But I was enjoying myself, so who cares?

Hand in hand, we strolled down a nicely even section of trail. After he finished a sentence that included "git" and "knackered," I opened my mouth and made the biggest mistake I'd made so far with him.

"So, your accent," I remarked. "Why is it still so strong? With your father in New York throughout your formative years, I would think you'd sound more like us Yanks."

"Oh, I was hardly ever here. I spent most of my childhood with my mother in London. Well, when I wasn't away at school, which really was most of the time."

"So how is that?" I asked, stupidly digging a deeper hole. "Leaving home at such a young age? Not many Americans do the boarding school thing."

"It's traumatic for many kids. It wasn't for me, however, considering the fact that I never had much of a home."

It was at this point that I realized I was treading into dangerously personal territory. I was unable to think quickly enough to change the subject before he continued, "With my father in New York and my mother in London, and both of them utterly preoccupied with their careers and themselves, school became my world. I suppose it was strange, really, being on my own at such a young age. But, of course, I didn't know anything different."

Probably anticipating what would have been my next question if I had been interested in plumbing his depths any further, he added, "Even stranger, I suppose, is that I followed in my father's professional footsteps. I hardly knew the man, after all. I'm coming to realize that perhaps it was my resentment toward him that drove me to try to surpass him at his own game…"

_Oh. My. God._ What was I getting myself into? Deep-seated childhood issues were the _last_ thing to discuss with someone you wanted only a casual relationship with.

But like Charles swooping in to save me at the arts gala, my savior this time was the view. Just at that very moment, we miraculously reached the pinnacle of the trail.

"Wow!" I exclaimed, letting go of Derek's hand and walking over to gaze at the green hills rolling into the distance and the dark river lazily snaking below. "You weren't kidding. The view is truly breath-taking."

Derek strolled over and joined me. He casually put an arm around my shoulders as we admired the view for a while.

"I told you Breakneck Ridge Trail would be worth it," he muttered in my ear, his deep voice and hot breath sparking a thrilling tingle. I smiled at him, and he replied with a crooked smirk and narrowed eyes. Could the man possibly be any sexier?

He slowly led me over to a nearby bench. And then, as we sat down, he instantly ruined the moment.

"It's precisely that kind of pondering that I like coming up here to do. I find that getting away from the city is necessary to clear my mind. Sometimes I can't get my head wrapped around anything but the business at hand when I'm in Manhattan. But up here … it's just you and the wider world. Strangely – it helps me get both _outside_ and _inside_ myself."

_OK, Derek, I get it_, I thought. _So you brought me up here to show me your "vulnerable" side_.

Well, I wasn't buying it for a second. He was a man – a _British_ man, at that. Talk about emotional restraint and distance. There was no way he could genuinely be this touchy feely.

Why was he bothering with this charade, anyway? Guys pulled this kind of stunt to woo women into bed. Surely he knew I might as well already be between his 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cottons. Or satin … would he do cotton or satin … or maybe silk?

"I wish I could ramble out here more often. Introspection as well as losing myself – a paradox I could use more often, no doubt," he was going on and on. "Anyway, I thought that perhaps you would appreciate getting away from it all as well, if only for a day."

I needed to lighten the mood.

"Oh, I'll bet you bring all the girls up here," I lightly interjected.

"I have _never_ brought a girl here," he declared with mock outrage.

"Oh, you mean to _this_ bench? How about that one?" I playfully pointed to one a little farther down the trail.

That brought out of him another teeth-revealing laugh. I also noticed that Derek's eyes danced and crinkled at their edges. A genuine laugh, no doubt.

"Honestly, I've never brought anyone else here before. It's always been my little haven of solitude," he was still smiling in the wake of his laughter, but his words were serious. "I wanted to share it with you."

The arm around my shoulders pulled me toward him as he leaned in for a kiss. His lips were warm and soft, his embrace easy but snug as he pressed me into him.

He was skillful; he was considerate. He introduced his tongue very delicately, by lightly touching my lips, which I willingly parted. He was careful not to scratch me with his scruff as he kissed me, lightly nibbling and moving his lips across mine. He kept his hands above my shoulders, gently cradling my face, softly running his fingers across my cheeks and through my hair and along my neck.

As we kissed, I breathed in his scent. It was faintly sweet and surprisingly intoxicating. I could tell that he wasn't wearing any cologne, so I suppose his natural pheromones were drawing me in.

_And, oh, how I was being drawn in_. Once my hyperawareness melted away, I was adrift in a sea of sensuousness. When he finally broke our kiss, I was a bit breathless and in a daze. As my eyes refocused, I thought I caught a slight smirk play across his lips.

No matter. He thought he was artfully seducing me, but I knew exactly what I wanted and what I was doing. He had nothing on me.

And if his kissing was any indication of what else he had to offer, well, I was going to enjoy this little dalliance with him, to say the least.

"Why don't you come to my flat for dinner on Tuesday?"

_Now _you're talking. Dinner at his place could mean only one thing.

And Derek Wills was going to be an amazing lay. I just knew it.


	5. Chapter 5

I knew it was going to be an evening of many delights, but the first delight was a bit unexpected: Derek's apartment.

It was simply one of the most astounding I'd ever seen in New York – or anyplace else, for that matter. It was pretty intimidating, actually, to see the hard evidence of his outrageous success, to be in the middle of it, walking around in it.

His taste was exquisite, as I'd expected, with its dark hues and clean, simple lines. And the man was a glutton for gorgeous views, apparently. Once again, I was experiencing a breath-taking view in this man's presence, this time over the heart of Manhattan.

I was a bit amused that he was cooking for me, a domestic activity I wouldn't have pictured him doing. But, of course, he was doing it in style. His kitchen was expansive and shiny, his cookware of the highest quality and the food – a complicated pasta dish – was no doubt going to be of gourmet caliber.

"I'm impressed," I admitted as I sipped from the glass of fine red wine he'd handed me. "I would've gotten takeout."

"Frankly," he remarked, adjusting the flame on the stovetop, "I'm just showing off a bit tonight. I do this only when I have downtime."

"But the play?"

"Oh, it hasn't truly fired up yet. We're still in the preliminaries." He looked at me with a crinkly smile, "So that means I have a lot more playtime."

* * *

As I later helped him clear the dinner table, I was going on and on about how wonderful the meal had been.

"It truly was like something from a gourmet place in Little Italy," I remarked as I set my plate in the sink. "If I hadn't actually witnessed you in action, I would've been suspicious."

"It was my pleasure," he laughed. "I'm sure your culinary skills rival mine."

"Oh, not at all," I groaned. "I wasn't kidding when I said I would've resorted to takeout tonight. I absolutely hate cooking. Always have."

"Why is that?" he casually leaned a hip against the counter and lightly crossed his arms as he gazed at me. "Too much of a bother? Just not your thing?"

"Mmmm," I pondered for a moment. "I think it was a way for me to buck the system."

"Pardon?"

"Well, I've always resented any kind of gender-specific traditional roles," I mused. "No doubt it stems from the way I was raised. Just because I sported a certain set of plumbing, I was expected to _do_ certain things, to _want_ to do certain things, to be _fulfilled_ by certain things. Especially things that, curiously, by their very nature are quite basic and mundane.…"

I suddenly remembered myself. _Oh, God, I've had too much to drink._

"Please, go on," he urged. "We seem always to be talking about things or ideas – or _me._ _That _certainly becomes tiresome. I want to hear about _you_."

I didn't want to talk about how I resented being a girl as I was growing up. I didn't want him to know the confusion and anger that I swallowed almost daily as I was taught that some supreme authority had dictated that my kind were second-class citizens relegated to a subservient role.

I didn't want to give this man that kind of insight into who I was deep down inside. There was ultimately no point to it.

"Freud in the kitchen," I deflected with a light laugh. "That'll spoil even the finest dining."

"What was your upbringing like?" he tried steering me back on track.

"'Fair to middling,' as they say back home," I answered lightly. "Can't really complain that much. Of course, everyone can complain about _something_ in their childhood. … So, did you take cooking lessons? I want to know the secret to your success," I steered right back off track.

I'm sure my avoidance was transparent to him. It would have been to anyone with ears, much less with his superpowers of observation. To his credit, he didn't push the issue any further. Instead, as he answered my question, he casually placed a hand at the small of my back and guided me to the sofa, where we sipped our wine and chatted about impersonal things.

Soon, things began to get a bit personal again, but in a way I liked.

"You're so beautiful."

Derek moved toward me as he set his wine glass on the coffee table. As he edged up close to me, he deftly took my glass from my hand and set it on the table next to his.

Then he moved in for the kill.

As he took me into an incredibly deep kiss, his hands lightly roamed through my hair. He ran his fingertips down my face and grazed my neck with his nails. I felt a thrill surge through my body.

My body was fully molded against his as he did his magic. I was mesmerized by his hands, his long, slender fingers. They sensually moved again through my hair, across my face and throat and down my arms. Next thing I knew, they had divested me of my blouse.

Although I was thoroughly entranced by his moves, I was able to return the passion. With one of my legs thrown over one of his, I fully leaned into him, but not so closely that I wasn't soon making him shirtless. My hands caressed his newly bared, hairy chest. I felt like I was going to melt into him as I caught his scent. His smooth, faintly sweet and warm scent. I trailed kisses from his lips to his ear, down his neck to his deliciously hairy chest.

It had been a long time since I'd made out like this. In fact, I wasn't sure if I'd ever experienced anything quite like it before.

Derek took his time, seeming to inhale me deeply as he went along. His smooth hands were everywhere – along my legs, down my arms, across my stomach and back – sending thrills throughout my body.

Soon he was making moves to usher me to his bedroom, pulling me to him as he stood up. As we moved across the living room to the stairs, he nibbled at my neck, breathed lightly and hotly into my ear, thrilled my upper body with his lightly roaming fingertips. I gave myself over to his lead, burying my face in his chest, kissing and mouthing and grazing it with my teeth as my hands clutched at his back and arms.

Next thing I knew, we were in his bed, and he was slipping my skirt off my hips. I was soon naked and he on his back, so I straddled him and unbuckled his belt, then unbuttoned and unzipped his pants in a swift motion. In another move, he lifted his hips from the bed, and I stripped him of his pants and shorts.

He rose up and grabbed me, then in one motion pinned me to the bed, smothering me in more hot kisses. His hands grasped and urgently pulled me close to him.

He rubbed his warm body fully against mine, practically wallowing on me. I could hear and feel him breathing me in, his face passionately moving from my hair to my face to my neck and shoulders.

I suddenly realized that this was a much more intimate experience than I wanted with him. Obviously, we were being intimate, but this wallowing, this breathing in of my essence – it felt like he was trying to possess me. And that was crossing a line.

I smoothly pushed him away from me and onto his back again. Then I straddled him again and swiftly got down to business.

Later, as he eased, I kissed his neck and nuzzled his hairline behind his ear. He was still breathing hard and pressing me tightly against him.

After a few minutes, I extricated myself from our tangle of naked arms and legs, and went into the bathroom.

When I emerged, I was fully clothed. I sat down on the edge of the bed to slip on my shoes. Derek's eyes must have taken a moment to adjust to the shaft of light falling from the bathroom into the dark bedroom, because there was a pause before he said, "What … what are you doing?"

He sounded faintly confused, and when I turned, I saw that he had raised himself up on one elbow and was frowning, still squinting in the light.

"I'm getting dressed so I can go home."

There was another pause.

"Won't you stay?"

"Work tomorrow," I crawled across the bed to him and gave him a kiss and a smile. "And I can't abide the walk of shame."

* * *

I was a bit uneasy on the cab ride home. The sex had been mind-blowing. God, had it _ever_. But there had been far too much intimacy … the slow and sensuous foreplay; the full-body wallowing; the intense, soulful inhaling. …

Oh, I would definitely see him again. But I was going to have to be more careful. With these short-term situations, there had to be an arm's length between us. Without it, somebody – probably _me_ – was going to get hurt.

And I was determined not to let that happen.


	6. Chapter 6

It was only a day and a half later when Derek called me. By then, I was out of town on business.

"Hello, Gorgeous."

I had answered my cell, and there it was: the first hint of sliminess from this guy.

I hated it when men who hardly knew you talked to you like that. It was so manipulative. Well, Derek Wills did have the reputation of being the Master of Manipulation. I just didn't expect his brand of it to be so cheap.

"Hi, Derek," I replied, a bit flatly. I wasn't unfriendly, but he could probably tell I wasn't especially impressed with his greeting.

If he could tell, though, I couldn't hear it in his voice. "I know this is rather last minute, but I was wondering if you would like to join me for dinner tonight."

"I'm out of town."

"Oh? What are you up to?"

"On a press check. The magazine is on press at ungodly hours, so the production manager just spends the night over here. And we have a new production manager on staff, so I'm here at the printer's in Trenton holding his hand for a couple of days."

"Well, I can't have you holding another man's hand," Derek was starting to sound slimy again. "You know, I don't have much going on for the next day or so. It wouldn't be a bother at all for me to venture out to the hinterlands for a visit."

Coming from anyone else, I would've been pleased, even touched that they would want to make such an effort. Coming from him and the way he put it, in that superior-sounding accent no less, I was slightly irritated.

I was careful not to show it in my voice, but I said, "Hey, don't worry about it. I'll be back in the city day after tomorrow, so then it won't be an inconvenience."

There was a slight pause on the other end.

"No, no, I didn't mean it to sound like that," he quickly followed up. "Not at all. There's nothing I'd rather do in _all the world_ than go out to _New Jersey_ to see you."

I had to laugh. I knew I was probably being too cagey and defensive. It's just that our brush with what seemed like true intimacy the other night had been so … disconcerting.

"Well, I never thought I'd be seeing you in a moderately priced hotel room," I warmed up. "But I'm out here at the Hinterlands Hampton Inn near I-95 and 295."

I actually had difficulty focusing on the job at hand for the rest of the afternoon. Fortunately, we were able to knock off a little early, so I could hurry back to my room to freshen up a bit before Derek got there. I was actually stupidly flushed with excitement in anticipation of seeing him.

When I opened the door to his knock in the early evening, he was standing in the hallway with a bottle of red wine, two wine glasses and a bouquet of gorgeous amaryllis.

"I reckoned the Hinterlands Hampton Inn would be short on fine wine and exotic flowers."

"You 'reckoned' correctly," I couldn't help but grin as I helped him unload his handfuls. I admired the brilliantly red flowers. "These are absolutely gorgeous! Thank you."

Right then and there, I decided to _show_, not just _tell_ him my appreciation. Once the bottle, glasses and flowers were safely placed on the room's desk, I literally attacked him.

Almost immediately I had him lying on the bed, his shirt flung on the floor and his belt unbuckled. I was making swift work of his zipper when he grappled with me for the upper hand. In a flash he had _me_ on _my_ back, shirtless and nearly skirtless.

* * *

The next few weeks flew by in a haze of wining and dining and wild sex.

But there was much more to it than that. Derek took me to movies and plays, and he even twisted my arm and finally made me see _Bombshell_ with him. Then we saw more Broadway shows. We talked endlessly about it all, and he seemed as interested in my observations as I was in his behind-the-scenes insights. With his deep commentary on all the machinations of the performances, I became fascinated with them. Even if the bursting into song still got on my nerves occasionally.

I was puzzled at first when he kept asking to see me. I supposed I was filler between leading ladies. I was having the time of my life, but how comparatively boring and unglamorous I thought it must be for him to go out with me.

He led such a fascinating life, I could listen to him talk about it in that deep, sexy voice of his for hours. He did a little too much name dropping here and there, but I pretended not to know who certain people were just to get a rise out of him. He knew I was "taking the piss out of him," as he put it.

Probably in part to get back at me, he took me to celebrity parties – lavish affairs that not even my press credentials would have gotten me within 100 yards of the door. I was proud that I was able to keep my cool even when seated next to Alan Rickman at a dinner party and when literally rubbing elbows with Bernadette Peters over cocktails. I'd met A-List celebrities on occasion through my job, but these insider encounters were a completely different experience.

And then there was the sex. Derek was an absolute god in bed. Of course, I didn't tell him that in those exact words, but I'd never been with a man who could so skillfully pleasure a woman. What was hilarious was that he actually did call me a "goddess" in bed. His British pronunciation, with the emphasis on the second syllable made me laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?"

"I've never been called a 'god-_dess_' before."

"No?"

"'_God_-dess,' lots of times, of course; just not 'god-_dess_.'"

He threw his head back and laughed.

I loved his neck. For such a lean, svelte man, his neck was nice and sturdy. I enjoyed running my fingertips along it, kissing and grazing it with my teeth. Nuzzling it meant getting my fill of his heavenly natural scent.

I also loved his chest. It was lightly hairy and nicely contoured for a slim man. I often insisted that he remove his shirt as soon as he answered the door to his apartment. He always obliged, usually with a slight smirk.

This emphasis on the physical is what I tried to focus on whenever we spent time together.

I kept the sex as fast and hard as possible. I urged Derek quickly through foreplay and derailed any attempts at deep intimacy with playfulness, whether the occasion called for fun play or a little rough play. Although this approach usually intrigued him, at times I could sense him pushing back, wanting to take more time, romance me, explore our desire more meaningfully.

And I wasn't about to go there.

It irritated me whenever he made these attempts. I vaguely resented having to turn our sex life into what were essentially emotional wrestling matches. But I was determined not to get in too deep with him and make our inevitable parting any more painful than it had to be.

I didn't take emotional intimacy casually, and I really wished he didn't either.

The good news for him, though, is that I did my best to make my defensive maneuvers as interesting and exciting as possible. I made a playlist of hard, driving songs to keep the mood on target in his bedroom. Encounters were almost always spontaneous and often wild, and they sometimes took place in unexpected situations. The darkened coat-check room at a theater, after a late performance; the backs of limos; the sleek bathrooms at those swanky parties.

And after we'd been seeing each other for a few months, and he began going to the theater every day, I even surprised him there one day at lunch. He had just crankily wrapped up a planning session when I pulled him into a dressing room for a quickie. His crankiness was abated, and I'm sure his underlings were later grateful.

He probably thought a lot of this was a desperate attempt to keep his interest and attention, to hang on to him. Ironically, it was a desperate attempt to keep him at arm's length – but that's not to say that I wasn't enjoying every minute of it.

One thing I wasn't enjoying, though, was how much I thought about him. We didn't see each other every day – with our schedules that was impossible, and it wasn't something I wanted, anyway – but I often found myself daydreaming about him while I was at work, out with friends, eating breakfast, taking a shower, pretty much anywhere, anytime. He was stirring deep feelings in me – a longing that was becoming distracting. And worrisome.

One thing I did to cut down on this distraction was to keep him out of my apartment. I'd always had a rule about not allowing into my place any guy who I had no intention of staying with for very long. They weren't to invade my privacy in that way. It was my personal, _intimate_ space, where they could become privy to too much of me. Plus, I didn't want any memories of them there later.

I also didn't like the habit of spending the night at a guy's place. There was just something too familiar about actually sleeping in the same bed and waking up and beginning the day together.

But after we had been dating for a while, Derek finally wore me down on that one.

One night he was waiting for me expectantly, sitting on the edge of the bed, when I emerged fully dressed from his bathroom.

"Where are you going?" he asked in an uncharacteristically sing-songy voice.

"Who are you – my wife?" I scoffed good-naturedly as I began the usual patrol around his room looking for my scattered shoes and hose.

"I know, I know. Work tomorrow, and all that. Couldn't have you making the walk of shame, now could we?"

There was something in his teasing tone that made me halt my patrolling and look at him.

"So," he continued, "considering how typically unorganized you are when you come over here – after all, who would expect an _editor_ to be able to plan ahead? – I thought I would help you get your life in order for once."

With that, he made a grand gesture toward a chair in a darkened corner. I walked over to it to find he had laid out a brand-new business suit, replete with underwear, a blouse, office-appropriate jewelry and even a pair of shoes, as well as … a toothbrush.

I was glad the room was still semi-dark. I wouldn't have wanted him to see my reaction. My stupid, weak reaction.

It was as if my heart had expanded and risen into my throat, bringing tears to my eyes.

"Now," he grabbed hold of the hem of my blouse and pulled me to him. "I get to undress you all over again."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Previously on:**__"Now," he grabbed hold of the hem of my blouse and pulled me to him. "I get to undress you all over again."_

But, God, Derek Wills could be moody.

I never showed up at his place uninvited, so I was surprised one evening to be greeted at his door less than enthusiastically. It hadn't even been my idea to come over tonight. I'd told him I had a lot of work to do, but he convinced me to just bring it over to his place. He said he also had work to do, and we could just hang out together.

I immediately sensed something was amiss – with Derek's tight smile and quick kiss – as I walked in the door.

"Hello, Darling," he spoke as he distractedly took my jacket and tossed it on the entryway chair.

Then he turned his back and briskly walked to the sofa, where he'd spread out lots of papers and files. Without another word, he dove right back into his work, plopping down on the sofa and scowling at a paper he picked up from the coffee table.

_Okaaaay_, I thought as I strolled over to the adjoining chair. I eyed him as I sat down and opened my laptop. There was not another sign of acknowledgement from him, so I soon got caught up in my own work.

After a while, I heard him mutter under his breath, "_Bloody hell_."

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he replied abrasively, not even looking up from the file he was glaring at.

I immediately bristled – with just that one word, a flood of condescension and impatience crashed into the room.

_It's not me_, I reassured myself. _Obviously, he's distracted and annoyed by his work. But, _really?_ Does he have to be so rude?_

After another long silence that was punctured here and there by his "_bloody hells_" and "_goddammits_," I was having a hard time concentrating on my own work, much less ignoring his cantankerousness.

"Derek," I sighed. "What's going on? Is everything OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered dismissively, in a quick, clipped manner, still not taking his eyes off of his papers.

This time I ignored his tone, offering, "Can I get you a drink or something?"

It was when he rolled his eyes that I decided I'd had enough.

_Fine. Everyone has their bad moods_, I thought. _But I don't have to hang around for this. If we were building something, I would need to figure out how (and if I _wanted_) to deal with this. As it is, I have to do no such thing._

So without another word, I shut my laptop, stood up, strolled across the room, grabbed my jacket and walked out the door.

* * *

He called me the next day.

"I suppose you never want to see me again?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I responded lightly.

"I'm really sorry about last night, Marla," he said. "You know the production is beginning to weigh heavily on me, and I – well, I can be a bit brooding anyway, to say the least."

"Hey, don't worry about it," I was genuine in my reassurance. "I don't expect you to put up with my bad moods, so I'm just … going to give you space with yours."

There was a noticeable pause.

"Really," I spoke again. "It's OK. I know it had nothing to do with me. I didn't take it personally."

"Good. I really _am_ sorry," he slightly paused again before continuing, "I'm just not very … experienced with this sort of thing, to be honest."

"What, with being walked out on?"

"No, no … well, yes, I suppose that's true. It's not what I meant, but you're right. … I'm usually indulged, regardless of how I behave."

Now _I_ paused. I was speechless with his admission.

This had to be the most awkward phone call we'd ever had.

"I just don't quite yet understand the lay of the land," he was speaking carefully.

I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by this, so I didn't say anything.

"Listen," he finally spoke again. "I obviously have a lot of steam to blow off, so would you like to go for a run with me?"

"What?"

"Nothing helps me with stress like a good run. Well, I suppose there's something _else_ that does as well," he said, "but I'd like to _talk_ to you. I could meet you at the park."

"I don't know."

"Oh, come on. You're always whinging that you don't have time to exercise," he pointed out. "As Nike would urge, let's 'just do it.'"

* * *

Blowing off steam is exactly what Derek did during our jog in Central Park. It gave him a lengthy opportunity to talk – think out loud, really, sometimes more to himself than to me – about the production problems he was experiencing with the play. He was in such great shape, he didn't even seem to breathe hard as he talked endlessly.

I, on the other hand, was too winded to be able to say much, except to ask a question here and there.

Later, as we sat on a park bench recovering, he smiled at me.

"Thank you, Marla. I really needed that. I think that I've been able to sort out some of the difficulties," he affectionately brushed a damp strand of hair from my eyes. "Your questions were very helpful, coming from an objective angle. Really, though, it must be dreadfully boring for you."

"I actually find it very interesting," I countered. "Your world is a fascinating one, even down to the elaborate work details."

"So," he leaned back, resting his arm along the back of the bench. "How is _your_ world? I've been so busy being a bloody lunatic lately, I've failed to ask how you've been doing."

"Just fine," I replied. "There's not much of note going on. Just the same old, same old, really."

There was an awkward pause as he waited for me to continue, but I wasn't going to.

I was more than happy to talk to him about his life, his work, about things, ideas. But I wasn't about to talk about my past or my interior life or my feelings or hopes or dreams or any of that garbage. Making that kind of an emotional investment was a rookie mistake.

So far, I had been successful at deflecting his numerous questions about my life. "It's boring as hell compared to yours" was getting old, though. He never seemed to have bought it in the first place, and he now seemed to be getting a little frustrated with it.

"Are you certain that you're not a closeted Brit?" Derek teased. "Your repression merits a Victoria Cross."

"I take it that's something like knighthood or royal ladyship or whatever?"

"Something like that. Your closed and stiff upper lip would make the queen proud."

Although he was still smiling, Derek's tone turned more serious, "I've talked your ear off about my work, and I'm not letting you up from this bench until you've done the same. You can't change out of those sweaty, sticky clothes until you've told me about at least one problem you've been experiencing at the office."

"Derek, my office world would put you in a coma," I replied feebly, knowing full well this wasn't going to work.

Derek was smooth but relentless. He had even admitted that he was accustomed to getting his way. And it was becoming obvious to me that if he didn't get it immediately, he wasn't going to give up.

He refused to say anything, just looked at me with his head cocked and eyebrows raised expectantly.

_Oh, I can let him into my professional life_, I thought with a silent, conceding sigh. _It's mostly impersonal stuff, anyway. What can it hurt?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Previously on: **_**Oh, I can let him into my professional life**_**, I thought with a silent, conceding sigh. **_**It's mostly impersonal stuff, anyway. What can it hurt?**_

There was a knock on my door late one evening.

Derek had done this before, surprised me by appearing unexpectedly at my apartment door. There was nothing I enjoyed more from him than a booty call, but I also had my no-casual-dates-in-my-place rule to stick to. I always made it plain that I was happy to see him, but instead of letting him in, I would grab my coat and we'd head to his place.

I always made it worth his trouble, wildly making out with him in the backseat of the cab all the way to his apartment building. We were worked up into such a frenzy by then, the sex was always nothing short of explosive.

But tonight was no booty call. I could immediately see it in his eyes.

"Can I talk to you, Marla?" his tone matched his eyes: distressed.

I had never seen him like this before. Angry, yes. Irritable, yes. But never rattled. And he had come to see _me?_

But I quickly grabbed a jacket and his hand, and we went to the coffee shop down the block.

"I'm sorry. I just need someone to talk to," he said after we ordered a couple of coffees and some pie. "I've had trouble sleeping the past couple of nights."

In the diner's harsh light, I could now see the dark circles under his eyes, his overall frazzled appearance.

"And, well, you were such a good listener with my professional woes, I thought perhaps you would be with my … personal, as well."

"What's going on?" I asked as our coffee and food arrived.

"It's rather silly, really," he shifted uncomfortably in the booth and didn't make eye contact with me. "My birthday is coming up."

"Well, none of us likes birthdays anymore," I chuckled sympathetically, taking a sip from my coffee cup.

"It's more than that," he continued, now glancing at me. "See, I'm about to turn the age that my father was when he died."

"Oh."

"I suppose it's this whole mortality thing that I'm suddenly being forced to face," Derek gazed out the window as he spoke. "Intellectually, we all know it's coming, of course. But for the first time, that horizon is no longer hazy. It's now becoming quite clear."

Derek talking to me about issues of life and death? Being there for him to talk about his work problems was perfectly fine with me, but I was a little uncomfortable being here for him during this personal crisis.

_But then_, I thought, _I would do the same for any of my friends. Surely, listening to him – a friend – was the least I could do_.

"Whenever my thoughts have strayed in this direction before, I've always been able to ward them off. Throw myself into my work," Derek looked at me. "But I'm having a hard time fending them off these days. It's all breathing down my neck. And that cold breath is a lot more attention-getting than any Ibsen play."

I nodded in understanding. "Life is a matter of distractions and diversions, isn't it? And as we get older, sometimes they don't always do the trick," I mused. "So then, I guess, we have to begin the process of acceptance."

"And how do you do that?" Derek sounded like he was earnestly seeking an answer from me. "How do you come to accept it?"

"I really have no idea," I admitted, setting my cup in its saucer.

There was a pause as I considered telling him about my own recent cold brush with mortality. Just last week I had experienced a medical scare that luckily turned out to be a brush and nothing more. I fully understood what he was going through and could say so.

I decided against it. Too personal.

"I suppose it's a slow process," I continued. "Yours is just being sped up because you're now able to identify more closely – more personally – with it."

"God, growing older…" he groaned.

"It's better than the alternative."

That made Derek smile, at least.

Later, after he had said everything that he needed to say and I had responded accordingly, we sat in comfortable silence for a little while. Then Derek looked over at me with his tight, lopsided smile. He reached across the table and took my hand.

"Thank you, Marla."

* * *

The next few weeks went by in a flurry of work and dinners and wild sex and parties and quiet evenings spent with laptops at his place. Derek's emotions ranged from happy and playful to brooding and temperamental.

But under that abrasive exterior was this expressive soul that now emerged more frequently. It was as if he was edging closer and closer to me to make a serious pass, only it was an emotional one instead of physical. I deflected lightly, but deflected nonetheless. I wasn't sure how obvious my maneuvers were because Derek didn't say anything about it.

His openness made me uncomfortable, but even more than that, it puzzled me. All I could figure out was that he was one of those guys who enjoyed – possibly _needed_ – an occasional emotional dip with a woman. Then, as they approached the deep end together, he would get skittish and vacate the pool as soon as possible.

Well, I wasn't getting in the pool with Derek.

One night during this time period, he showed up at my door with a request.

"Can't I come in for once?"

He'd never before questioned my boundary, and I had decided that when he eventually did, I wasn't going to beat around the bush.

"No," I simply said as I stepped into the hallway and pulled my door closed behind me.

"What, is your flat a mess or something?"

"No," I began walking toward the elevator, and he followed me.

"OK, so you're not a hoarder. Are you a serial killer? Frightened that I'll see the evidence?"

"Yes," I turned on my heel to face him with a grin as I pressed the elevator call button. "I would hate to have to kill you this soon. You're still very useful to me."

"You're just so enigmatic," he gave me a slight smile. The elevator doors opened just then, and he pulled me to him. A ruse to keep me off the elevator and near my door?

"Keeps it interesting, doesn't it?" I planted a kiss squarely on his mouth and, taking him by the hand, pulled him into the elevator with me.

"I'm not certain that 'interesting' is the word." There was an edge to his tone that I was afraid was going to put a damper on the cab ride over to his place.

Sure enough, as soon as we were in the taxi and I scooted over to him, he just turned his head and passively looked out the window.

"Nice evening out," he muttered in that flat, haughty tone he used so well.

"A little too cold for my taste."

He now turned his head and looked at me directly.

"Yes. 'Cold' is the word that I was searching for."

He was obviously petulant because he wasn't getting what he wanted, and Derek Wills was used to getting what he wanted. I imagine he heard the word "no" rarely, and when he did, he was accustomed to being able to charm it into a "yes."

Well, this was something he wasn't getting.

"It's not going to work, Derek." This was our first real fight, so I decided to let him know I wasn't one to play games. "Charm and sulk won't get you what you want."

"I suppose I'm getting what I deserve," he quickly muttered, looking away from me again and hardly moving his lips as he spoke.

I didn't understand what that meant. Maybe it was a ploy to get me to feel sorry for him. Maybe he was trying to make me feel bad about myself. Maybe it actually had nothing to do with me. I had no idea.

Well, this was a booty call gone bust, but that didn't mean the entire evening had to be ruined. I knew just the thing.

"Listen," I reached over and placed my hand on Derek's thigh. He didn't try to move away from my touch, so I continued. "Let's not throw away this nice evening completely. Why don't we catch _Mother's Key_?"

I knew he'd been wanting to see the movie. We wouldn't have to speak for a couple of hours, enough time for things to smooth over between us. Afterward, we could talk about the film over some drinks, then see where the rest of the night led.…

His acknowledgement was to lean forward and give the cabbie the movie theater's location.

So that we didn't ride the next seven blocks in strained silence, I tried to make small talk.

He made it as difficult for me as he could, gazing sullenly out the window and responding to my chatter with noncommittal sounds and occasional, curt phrases.

_God, could he be any more surly? Exasperating? He is _truly_ an overgrown brat._

I prattled on, pretending not to notice his insolence – too much, anyway.

I'm not sure at what point my blather truly became mindless. I only know that as we passed a doctor's office, I was hearing myself finishing a thought out loud, "… God, I've been in those places enough lately to never have to go again for as long as I live."

Derek was suddenly looking at me, his eyes widened with interest. "What?"

"What?" I echoed, slightly rattled by my abrupt return to reality.

"What did you just say? About medical tests?"

"Oh, that? That turned out to be nothing. Everything's OK."

"When did this happen?"

"A few weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't a big deal," I waved it off.

"Sounds like one to me." I could hear agitation building in his voice. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"You've got enough on your plate. I didn't want to bother—"

"_Bollocks, _Marla!" he exclaimed, suddenly turning in the seat to fully face me, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl.

"Excuse me?"

"Stop messing about with me!"

"What are you talking about?" I was taken aback by his shouting.

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about! I have been patient and kind and open. I have reached out to you time and time again, and you have done _nothing_ in return!"

"_Sorry_," I managed to reply sarcastically, although I was now taken aback by his words. "I didn't realize we were in a tit-for-tat situation here—"

"Isn't that how it's supposed to work?" Derek couldn't stop shouting. "You seem to have absolutely no idea of what you're doing!"

"I actually _know_ what _I'm_ doing," I retorted. "I'm not so sure that _you_ do."

"You will get no argument from me on _that_," he replied in a low growl.

Just then, the cab stopped for a red light and he jumped out, slamming the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Previously on:**__** Just then, the cab stopped for a red light and he jumped out, slamming the door behind him.**_

"We need to talk."

It was the next evening and once again, Derek was at my door, his presence filling the space I had opened.

After a pause, I said, "All right. Let me get my coat—"

"No," he was emphatic. "We're going to do it _here_."

"No," I replied just as emphatically. "_We're not_."

"I'm not leaving til you let me in, Marla."

"Bullying is going to get you as far as charm and sulk does," I pronounced as I grit my teeth. "Now, I will talk to you, but it isn't going to be in my home."

Derek's reply was to cross his arms across his chest and lean against the doorjamb.

_Dammit_, I thought as I glared at him. _I'll shut the door in his face, and he'll still be here in the morning. He's just that stubborn of a bastard_.

"OK," I angrily relented. "I'll talk to you right here. Now, what do you want?"

"I want you to let me in."

"You need to learn the art of compromise, Derek." I was really pissed. "You can't always have everything completely _your way_."

"Neither can you," he replied coolly. "I let you into my home; you can let me into yours."

"It was _your choice_ to let me in your home, Derek," I retorted. "I never asked."

"And if I hadn't let you in, Marla, where would that have put us?"

"In a fucking _hotel room_. That _is_ an option, you know—"

Suddenly, I noticed Jim Earhart standing in the hallway, two doors down. Derek had inadvertently blocked me from seeing his approach from the elevator. Now, Jim didn't even try to hide his blatant curiosity as he peered our way, fumbling to get the key in his door.

Following my gaze, Derek glanced over his shoulder at the staring old man, and then looked back at me with a smirk.

_Dammit_.

With a heavy sigh and an eye roll that could rival any of Derek's, I reluctantly stepped aside to let him in.

_Just this once_.

After he was inside, Derek's infuriatingly smug satisfaction disappeared. He now simply looked around my livingroom in absorbed curiosity. As he slowly unwound his scarf and slipped off his leather jacket, he seemed thoroughly distracted by the surroundings.

"Nice Wright," he commented, gesturing toward the barrel chair in the far corner. "Everyone loves his architecture but seems to forget about his furniture designs—"

"Derek," I said levelly as I took his jacket and scarf. "Get on with it."

It was annoying how I was still angry and he was acting as if everything was perfectly fine now. I guess that's how things roll when you're used to getting your way – and you'd just gotten it once again.

I could tell that Derek wanted to keep looking around, but with a glance at the look on my face, he decided he'd better not push me any further. So instead, he took my hand and led me over to the sofa, where he sat down and had me sit next to him.

"Marla," he made sure he had my eye contact and then held it. "I really like you."

"Well, I like you, too," I replied. "When I'm not pissed off at you, that is."

"I mean, I _really_ like you," he continued, undeterred. "I'm … as they say, _into_ you."

I didn't say anything. I just waited, with a creeping discomfort over where this looked to be heading.

"And when I found out last night that you hadn't told me about your recent fright, well, I was confused and angry and … hurt."

"OK."

"So why _didn't_ you tell me about it? I mean, I thought that's what you do when you're … friends."

"Well, not necessarily," I spoke carefully. I almost felt as if I were speaking to a child. "I don't tell my friends _everything_."

"But you tell me _nothing_."

"Derek," _God, how was I to word this?_ "We have a great time together. We connect on many levels. And I want us to continue having a good time, so I think we should keep things … light."

"But I tell you all sorts of things that are heavy."

"And I'm certainly here to listen if that's what you choose to do."

I was _not_ backing down – not even compromising – on this situation. I'd been hurt way too many times by men just like him to make the same mistake. To think that something meaningful and lasting could be built with a confirmed bachelor who ran through women like Kleenex? I was getting too old to be such a stupid fool anymore. _Why was he doing this? Why couldn't he just back off, for the love of god, and leave it at a good time?_

Derek didn't say anything for a moment as his slightly furrowed brow indicated he was figuring out something. As I was about to discover, it was to determine what angle of attack to attempt next.

"You say we connect on many levels, and I agree," he was now speaking carefully. "In fact, our sex life is one on which we really make a connection. But even with _it_, there's something lacking."

This hit me like a thunderbolt out of the blue, and the shock must have been apparent on my face.

"Don't get me wrong – the sex is absolutely fantastic," Derek quickly followed up. "You've taken me on an incredible ride."

When he could see that I had recovered from my initial surprise, he continued carefully, "It's just that in addition to … _fucking_, I do actually like to make love. And it seems that whenever I try to make love to you, you push me away."

I couldn't believe my ears. And I was_ not_ going _there_.

"Have you been reading relationship how-to books or something?" I was trying to make light of the situation, but from the unfalteringly serious look on his face, I could tell that he was having none of it.

So I followed up just as seriously, but softly, "Please. Let's not make this more than it is."

"But perhaps it _is_ more—"

"Don't. Do. This." I spoke very firmly, looking him directly and steadily in the eyes.

I didn't show it, but I was beginning to get angry.

It infuriated me that he would play with me like this. I suppose it had been too easy of a conquest to get me into bed. I guess he needed the challenge of breaking down my emotional wall and actually getting to me. The bastard.

Well, the man didn't do long-term, and I wasn't granting him any of the benefits that came with it. Namely, myself.

He looked stung.

"All _right_," he relented, annoyed in his confusion. "_Forget it_."


	10. Chapter 10

**This chapter is dedicated to kickslikeapony! ;)**

_**Previously on:**__ Well, the man didn't do long-term, and I wasn't granting him any of the benefits that came with it. Namely, myself._

_He looked stung. _

"_All _right_," he relented, annoyed in his confusion. "_Forget it_."_

* * *

I was worried that things wouldn't be the same between us after that conversation in my apartment. Derek had shown his cards, and not only had I refused to show mine, I had claimed that I didn't even have a hand of them to play. I thought his pride would suffer, and he'd pull away.

But our good time wasn't ruined after all. Derek acted as if nothing had happened. He had told me to forget it, and apparently he had, too. He called and stopped by just as often; we went out and hung out together as usual; our conversation was as natural and easy as ever. And there weren't any further demands to invade my privacy – either in my home or in my head.

I was glad. I wasn't ready to end it all just yet. It did leave me baffled, though.

Maybe now knowing that I wasn't expecting – or wanting – to take our relationship to the next level somehow let him off the hook. Maybe he was relieved that I wasn't getting in the emotional pool with him. Or maybe he had decided to temporarily turn his active siege into a passive war of attrition – maybe he was just waiting me out. Or, then again, maybe he just figured the conquest challenge wasn't worth his trouble.

Well, whatever his reasons and whenever things finally ended between Derek and me, I was sure that at least one long-lasting thing was going to result from it all: my friendship with Eileen Rand.

Eileen and I got together fairly frequently, with and without Derek. And it was nice that when Derek wasn't around, she and I had better things to talk about than him and our relationship.

But our conversation was bound to finally meander into this territory.

"How are things with you and Derek?" Eileen eyes were twinkling. Or maybe it was just that I'd had too many cocktails this evening.

"We're having a great time," I smiled good naturedly. Eileen was waiting for me to add more.

"_Well?_" she finally pressed.

"Well, what?"

"Oh, come on! I've been good about not prying until now, so reward me with _something._"

"I'm not sure what to tell you," I was speaking honestly. "A great time really is all there is to it." I thought a moment. "Well, I guess I can say that he's full of surprises."

"Like what?"

"For one, I'm surprised at how expressive he is."

"Oh, yes, that man can talk your ear off if he has the mind to do it."

"No, I don't mean _how much_ he says. It's _what _he says that surprises me."

"Oh," Eileen waved her hand knowingly as she sipped her drink. "I wasn't kidding when I said he was a bastard. I've never known anyone so naturally charming who can be so naturally bitchy."

"It's not his moods, either," I said. "Most of that isn't personal, so I can just ignore it. No, it's how _revealing_ he is."

"Well, he _is_ an artist, you know," Eileen reminded me. She pondered this a moment. "I know what you're talking about, though. He's choosy with whom he shares, but when he does, he _really_ does. He's bared his soul to me a few times over the years. He's always a bit guarded with me, though. We're friends, but we still do business together, you know.

"So!" Eileen shifted her tone, obviously taking the conversation in another direction. "I know I damn well have no business asking, but I've had way too much to drink tonight. So, tell me: Just how good is he in the sack?"

"The best." I said it without hesitation, and Eileen raised her eyebrows.

"Really?" She laughed. "And he _would_ have to be one of those who's out of bounds for me. Well, it's good to hear that there actually are things in life that aren't overrated."

"Yeah," I laughed with her. "He's one I'm _definitely_ going to miss."

"What do you mean?" she stopped laughing. "Are you going somewhere?"

"No, no," I waved away her concern. "I just mean when we eventually part ways. Derek doesn't exactly have a reputation for anything long term, something I fully realized and accepted going into this."

"People do change, you know."

"Hmph," I replied, fiddling with my drink's stir stick. "Believe me, I'm not counting on that."

"Well, you know that soul baring I was talking about? That's something that his girlfriends have complained about over the years."

"What? Did you ply them with drinks, too, so that they'd spill to you about him?" I grinned as I sipped my Bombay and tonic.

"Well, I did work with them, you know, so I would hear things every once in a while," Eileen explained. "These weren't the type of ladies to miss an opportunity for the spotlight, even in their personal lives. And there's often an awful lot of drama associated with a romance. Anyway, they were always bitching that he would never open up to them, never bond on an emotional level. 'The Mystery Man,' they always called him."

I was speechless for a second. Quickly recovering, I pointed out: "Well, it was wise of him. That's not something you do if you want to stay casual with someone."

"Exactly," Eileen was pointedly peering directly at me.

"No," I looked away from her. "No. That's not possible."

I wasn't going down that road. There was no way in hell.

"Why not?" Eileen pressed.

"_Why not?_" I echoed in exasperation. "There's a very long list of reasons why not, actually, but one at the top of the list is that I'm not going there with someone like him. Uh, look up 'womanizer' in the dictionary, and there's his infuriatingly sexy face."

"Like I just said, Marla," Eileen replied. "People do change."

"No disrespect intended, Eileen," I returned, "but isn't that being just a little naïve? Entire libraries of self-help books have been written for women who believe that actually happens with men like him."

"I'm just telling you," she was completely unruffled by my reply, "sometimes people do change, and I have been around him long enough to see changes in him. Big changes."

I couldn't believe this. I didn't really want to think about what she was saying, so I proceeded to check off the next on my laundry list of "why nots."

"I'm not willing to take that kind of a chance _again_," I groaned, my face literally in my hands. "And I got burned _so badly_ the last time—"

"Who older than 16 _hasn't_ been hurt?" she leaned forward. "Look. I understand. I'm still fairly fresh from a divorce myself. But you've got to put yourself out there. You know that reward only comes with risk."

"Well, to take that kind of risk, I'm going to need more information," I looked at her pointedly. "Exactly what kind of changes are you talking about?"

Now it was Eileen's turn to be resistant. "That's something you're going to have to find out from him."

"Don't do this!" I exclaimed. "How can you do this to me?"

"Listen," she continued, in a soothing tone. "I didn't mean to cause you any trouble with my nosiness. All I'm saying is that maybe you should try looking at Derek through a different pair of eyes. A fresh look that isn't clouded by all those things you've heard about his reputation. His _past_. Just try it. Maybe for a while."


	11. Chapter 11

**_Previously on:_** _"Listen," Eileen continued, in a soothing tone. "I didn't mean to cause you any trouble with my nosiness. All I'm saying is that maybe you should try looking at Derek through a different pair of eyes. A fresh look that isn't clouded by all those things you've heard about his reputation. His _past_. Just try it. Maybe for a while."_

* * *

I let myself relax a little after that conversation with Eileen. I felt I could trust her judgment, and it was just so much easier to let go some. I was still skeptical that Derek was capable of anything that I would consider a solid relationship, but I didn't worry as much about where he was coming from.

I still didn't divulge much of my inner life to Derek, but I let myself get more comfortable with really getting to know _him_. I even began to notice and enjoy his little habits.

I liked how he absent-mindedly chewed the tip of his thumb when he was deep in concentration, trying to solve his latest problem. I liked how ridiculously devoted he was to his soccer – excuse me, _football_ – team, Arsenal. I liked how he was now less guarded with his guilty pleasures: Xbox and text voting for his American Idol favorite. I liked how his accent could slide from proper Englishman to casual South Londoner, depending on the situation. I liked how he shouted at the TV. I liked how his cynicism was always overridden by "the voice of angels," as he put it, whenever he listened to a moving piece of music.

I even liked his little OCD habit of checking and rechecking the door lock before going to bed at night. He refused to eat leftovers or drink tap water and insisted on keeping certain things in their places, like the scissors and his messenger bag. But for all this meticulousness, I could always tell he was home by following the trail of lights he left on throughout the apartment.

I was able to follow that trail of lights because he gave me a key: "Just in case, you know, I don't get here before you do sometime."

And, to my relief, he didn't ask me to reciprocate.

Now that I was spending so much time there, his apartment seemed a lot less sterile than it first did. He wasn't as fussy as I initially assumed. Messes that varied anywhere from slight to major were left in his wake: crumpled papers, distractedly tossed sofa cushions, dirty wine glasses and cereal bowls. His maid service obviously had been responsible for the apartment's impeccability all along – and undoubtedly had been cleaning up behind him all his life.

And, God, _how_ he could be a snob. I tried to introduce him to decent $20 wines, but he wouldn't believe that such a thing existed. He refused to wait for a table at a restaurant. Either we got one right away, or we were out of there. He was quite vocal about the superiority of certain brands and, of course, what he considered the best always happened to be the most expensive. In other words, he was quite accustomed to the high standard of living that had been established for him from the very beginning.

But that was OK. For being a spoiled brat, he was awfully thoughtful and considerate of me, bringing me coffee in bed, indulging my preferences, giving me massages unusual for a guy: lengthy ones that didn't always lead to sex. And he seemed to like my little habits, too. At least, that's what he said. And if there was one thing about Derek Wills that I could count on, it was the truth. _His_ truth, anyway. He didn't hesitate to state his honest opinion, but that didn't mean he always did so. Often he turned a blind eye to my "inferior" standards without making a snide remark.

What made it work is that we laughed a lot.

And with every laugh and every stimulating conversation and every comfortable silence and every snuggle-in-bed-watching-TV we shared, I could feel myself edging closer and closer to getting into the emotional pool with Derek.

It was a long slide for me, but it was happening. Sometimes I could literally feel myself slipping, letting go….

But then, after a few weeks of this, I was rudely jerked back to reality.

"It's almost champagne time, Darling!"

It was the sheer joy on Derek's face that sparked my grin as I walked in his door that evening. He popped the cork from a champagne bottle to punctuate his greeting, and actually snorted when the bubbly overflowed the glasses he'd set out on the counter.

"I thought you said it's _almost_ champagne time," I smiled as I took the filled flute that he offered me.

"I just _love_ celebrating prematurely – a dress rehearsal for it, you might say. Oh, I suppose it's just a bloody excuse to drink, Marla, but you know I'll make any excuse."

"So what's the occasion?" I asked as we lightly clinked our glasses.

"My dear, I am chuffed to report that the casting for the play is nearly complete," he took a sip of champagne. "Now all we have to do is settle on a Nora. Of course, casting the lead character is a big hurdle, but we're down to three candidates, and it won't be long before it's all sorted out."

"Who's in the running?" My tone was conversational, not betraying the tightening I felt in my throat.

As he rattled off the names of several well-known, gorgeous and talented actresses, I casually turned and strolled over toward the windows. With my back to him, I could take several hard swallows of champagne to loosen my throat without him noticing.

_Well, I guess this is it, _I thought._ It's been fun while it's lasted._

I knew Derek's infamous diva diving was soon to commence, if it hadn't already. No wonder he was so overjoyed.

As I quickly accepted this realization, the sting of it was replaced by the numbness of resignation. After all, I wasn't a fool – I hadn't expected fidelity from him during our relationship. But I didn't want to know about any infidelity, and now I wasn't going to be able to ignore the possibility – the _likelihood_ – of it.

We spent so much time together, if he was messing around, it was probably only here and there. So I hadn't really given it much thought. As for me, I didn't have the time or energy – or interest, to be honest – in seeing any other guys. Anyway, as to his extracurricular activities, I just didn't let myself think about it.

But the leading lady situation … that was something else entirely, and I was going to have to begin the process of removing myself from this relationship. And soon.

My eyes were burning as I left his building that night. I had managed to make it through several glasses of champagne without betraying my dismay. Hell, _I _should've been trying out for the lead in his play – I had given an award-winning performance.

Derek seemed frustrated by my begging off dinner with him. I couldn't get away without the typical verbal wrestling match between us, as I twisted and slipped through his efforts to manipulate me into staying. I blamed a late edit job that had to make deadline.

As I strode down the block keeping an eye out for a cab through the blur of my tears, all I could think was: _Damn that Eileen_.

She had put idiotic notions in my head. I had fought them, tried to kick them out, but they had taken up residence in the back of my mind. And every knowing look, every caress, every single little kindness from Derek had done nothing but confirm those ridiculous notions. _What had I been thinking?_

I was furious with myself. Absolutely furious. I had let myself start to fall for a player – exactly what I had intended _not_ to let myself do.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Previously on:**_ _I was furious with myself. Absolutely furious. I had let myself start to fall for a player – exactly what I had intended _not_ to let myself do._

* * *

I started spending more time at my place, dodging Derek's every other call. And when we did get together, I widened my emotional distance. No more talks late into the night, no more sharing inside jokes or long cuddle sessions.

I was pulling away slowly but surely. To cope emotionally, I just didn't allow myself to dwell on the situation. I kept myself distracted with work, with friends, with a constant Netflix stream, with the longest novels I could get my hands on.

I needed to get out while I was still alive.

Fortunately, not long after that fateful night, business took me out of town for two weeks. I put all of Derek's calls through to voicemail and returned them only when I knew he'd be in rehearsal with his phone turned off.

Once I was back in town, I was able to evade him for a few days before my telephone tag strategy broke down. And it was a major break down.

I had worked late and was exiting the office building at the street when a dark figure came up beside me. Startled, I turned and found myself looking directly into the face of Derek Wills.

"What are you doing here?" I blurted, stopping in my tracks.

"Nice to see you, too," he snapped. After a pause, he continued without his sarcastic tone, "The electronics were becoming tiresome, and this is the only place I knew you'd be at any given time."

"OK," I steeled myself for whatever he had to say as I began walking down the sidewalk. Derek fell in step beside me.

"What is the matter with you?" He didn't even try to tone down his exasperation, much less hide it.

"I've been really busy lately—"

"Oh, don't give me that," he spoke abruptly, grasping my arm to pull me to a halt. "Let's just have this out – _straightaway_."

His tone had immediately changed from exasperated to angrily commanding. I could suddenly see the director in him emerging to take charge, and it infuriated me.

"Don't you use that demanding tone with me," I shot back. "_I'm not one of your divas here for you to direct._"

It was out before I realized it.

"_Now_ we're getting somewhere," he retorted. "We should have done this long ago."

Just then, one of my colleagues passed us by on the sidewalk.

"Let's take this somewhere else," I quietly urged Derek as I watched over his shoulder for my coworker to turn a corner.

"I want to talk about this _now_," he wasn't quite shouting, but he was well on his way.

"Pipe down!" I hissed. "Unlike you, I don't revel in putting on a show for everyone!"

He didn't say anything back so, as usual, I accepted this as his acknowledgement. I led him toward a diner across the street.

"Don't you know of someplace round here where we can get a drink?" he asked when we were halfway across the street.

"Do you really want to fuel this discussion with alcohol?"

Again, his silence was his acknowledgement, and he followed me into the diner. We took a corner booth and, luckily, since it was late on a weeknight, the place had few other customers.

After we were seated, I was the first to break the silent glare between us.

"I don't appreciate being ambushed at my place of employment."

"And I apologize for that," he conceded. "It's only that the other lines of communication were getting me nowhere."

"OK," I sat back and sighed, "Go ahead. You now have an open line."

And Derek proceeded to blow that line wide open.

"So what is going on with you? And don't tell me it's nothing. You've always kept me at arm's length, and now you're beginning to avoid me altogether," his forceful tone lightened as he added, "I don't understand. What have I done? Or not done? I thought things between us were going well."

"Yes, they were," I agreed stonily. "I was having a ball. And now it's time to move on."

"_Why?_"

"It's just time. That's all."

"I think I deserve more than that, Marla," Derek exclaimed, keeping his voice quiet. "Why _now?_"

"Oh, I think you know."

Derek sat back, gazing at me with an inscrutable expression on his face. "So when were you planning to tell me that it 'was time'? Were you hoping I'd just eventually go away?"

"Something like that," I admitted, pausing while the waitress filled our coffee cups. When she walked away, I still didn't say anything. It wasn't lost on me that he hadn't responded to my statement about knowing exactly what was going on.

"All right," he finally spoke. "So am I going to have to play a guessing game here?"

I propped an elbow on the table, pinching the bridge of my nose between my closed eyes. "Do we _have_ to do this, Derek?"

"Do you think so little of me?"

The hurt tone in his voice made me sit up again and look at him. The hurt was evident in his expression, too. _God_, I thought, _He's apparently fooled himself as much as I had fooled myself_.

"Look," I spoke gently. "I'm really trying to do you a favor here. I'm a big girl. I went into this with both eyes wide open, fully aware of what I was getting into. So you don't owe me any explanations or apologies or … anything. I don't even want to drag you through any discussions about it. We had our fun, and it was fantastic. Let's just part ways and call it a day, OK?"

"What are you going on about?" he exclaimed, his hurt expression replaced by an agitated one.

"Why do you have to be so obtuse?" Now _I_ was agitated.

"Marla," he leaned forward. "I thought I was your _boyfriend_. There's something here that I think is worth _saving_, not to mention worth _talking about_."

"You don't want to be my boyfriend, Derek."

"I don't?"

"No, you don't," I stated flatly. Then my pleading tone returned, "Can we _please_ just leave it at this? I don't want to have to hash through all of it. There's no point, anyway."

"Please," he urged quietly. "Just humor me."

"Oh, God," I sighed. I didn't even know where to start and said so.

"Then start by telling me why I don't want to be your boyfriend."

_Let's just get this over with_, I thought.

"Because I would expect a long-term commitment from you. And by 'long-term commitment,' I mean an _exclusive_ intimate relationship that lasts for many _years_."

_There. I said it._

"OK." His response was quick and firm. I, on the other hand, was speechless.

"_OK?_" I exclaimed when I found my voice again. "What do you mean, '_OK?' _"

" 'OK' generally signifies agreement," Derek responded quietly. His eyes didn't leave mine. I was the first to look away.

"Derek," my surprise was quickly turning into exasperation. "I'm not buying this. You mean to tell me that you suddenly yearn for the white picket fence?"

"Well, not quite. But … well, perhaps … perhaps this is the equivalent of _my_ white picket fence."

"Talk about a reverse midlife crisis," I muttered.

"I prefer to think of it as a … change. Major change. _Growth_, if you will."

When I didn't respond, just sat there peering out the window with one hand pressed to my mouth, Derek continued quietly, "What did you think all of this was? Isn't it obvious that that's what's going on?"

The poor man didn't know what he was stepping into.

"No, Derek, it isn't _obvious_ that that's what's going on," I was suddenly looking directly at him again, leaning forward and speaking intensely. "In fact, it's pretty _obvious_ that you're slumming with me until your next glamorous leading lady comes along."

He seemed to have had the wind knocked out of him, so I continued.

"You're a player, Derek. Nothing but a _player_," I knew I was being brutal, but I couldn't help myself. And, frankly, it needed to be said. "All along, I've trusted you about as far as I could throw you. But that's OK. Really. Like I said, I knew what I was getting into. But what I _don't_ appreciate is this kind of bullshit. Telling me you want to be my _boyfriend?_ I think that deep down inside, you know as well as I do that you haven't changed. _Guys like you don't change._"

It took a moment for him to recover from the powerful verbal blow. When he did, it was merely to remark quietly, "And everyone accuses _me_ of being a cynic."

"It's not cynicism, Derek," I retorted. "It's _realism_. What kind of an idiot do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're an idiot at all," Derek responded gently. He paused thoughtfully before he spoke again. "In fact, I understand your doubt and distrust. I know that I deserve nothing else, really."

He let that sink in before he continued, "Marla, all I ask is that you give me a chance. And, as difficult as it is to believe, I _have_ changed. _Bombshell_ truly was a … well, a bombshell for me. You see, there were these three women—"

"Do I really have to hear this?" I groaned, my face now in my hands. Sometimes Derek's bluntness was more than I could take.

"Well," he replied hesitantly. "I will spare you the details, but it's important that you understand I went through a major life change with that production."

"So you're telling me that you got yourself into some kind of mess with your assorted actresses and came to the revelation that you're better off as a long-term monogamist?" I scoffed. "Like I said, people don't just change like this overnight."

"It wasn't overnight," Derek countered. "It was that experience coupled with certain milestones in my life … and the introspection that goes along with it all. Among other things, I've come to understand that my relationship with my father and what he was. … Let's just suffice it to say that I felt the need over the years to … validate my manhood."

"Derek," I sighed heavily as I quickly derailed _that_ train of thought. "Look. Let's just call this what it is: a challenge. There's nothing you like better than a challenge, and getting to me fits that bill—"

"No—" Derek started to interrupt me, but I silenced him by raising my voice above his as I continued.

"So let's say you conquer this challenge," I said. "You wear me down. We embark on this journey together. I bare my soul, give myself to you…. You'll get _bored_—"

"No, Marla, I won't," Derek was now leaning forward, speaking as intensely as I had previously. "I've seen a glimpse with you of what it's like to have something. Something _real_. And it's what I want. It's what I want with _you._"

He was fooling himself. Yes, that was it. Not even _he_ would go to these lengths just to manipulate me into sticking around until he could get his leading lady into bed—

"Don't you want it, too?" He asked when he saw that I wasn't saying anything.

"Derek," I finally responded. "I'm … flattered, I guess. I mean, I'm touched you think you want me like this, but that's just it – you _think_ you want this. You don't know what having a real relationship is about. The first rough patch, and you'll dump me as fast as you can say 'Scarlett Johansson'—"

"No, Marla, I really don't—"

"You're used to having the best – some of the most beautiful and talented women in the world—"

"Please! Just listen to me!" Derek urged. I started to say something more and he interrupted again, "Just listen! OK?"

When he saw that I was finally relenting, he continued, "I ask that you bear with me because, as you know, I've never really _done_ relationships. Most of my past … partners weren't what I would want long term. And, besides, I never really was interested, anyway.

"Marla, see, all those women … there was simply too much drama."

When I couldn't help but roll my eyes at this, he quickly followed up, "And, no, the irony is not lost on me.… Much of it was a matter of giving them what I thought they needed to perform their best for the project. So, yes, you're right, I was just a player. But please believe me - I have found that ultimately it was nothing but exhausting … and empty.

"Those divas.… Well, of course, it could be exciting at times, but with all due respect - in fact, I intend the utmost respect - I want someone _normal_ in my life now."

Derek paused, but I didn't know what to say, and he wasn't finished.

"You're genuine," he spoke earnestly. "And you don't let me get away with anything. You're clever, you're witty, you're exciting and you're also … grown up. I want to build something worthwhile and lasting for once.

"I know much of our time together has been awkward, with my blurting out my innermost feelings from almost day one. I want to be open with you, but I bloody well don't really know what I'm doing. I still don't completely understand the lay of the land, and I'm unaccustomed to allowing myself to be … vulnerable," Derek now paused a moment before he added gently, looking into my eyes, "But frankly, Marla, you seem to have more difficulty with it than I do."

I suddenly burst into tears. It came on quite shockingly – I hadn't even realized I was on the verge of such an emotional outburst. I hadn't cried like this – heaving, breath-stealing sobs – in ages.

Derek immediately jumped up from his side of the table and slid into my booth. He took me in his arms and held me tightly as I sobbed and sobbed.

* * *

**ONLY TWO CHAPTERS TO GO! Thanks to those of you who have stuck with this. I really appreciate your interest and feedback. :)**


	13. Chapter 13

_**Previously on:**__ Derek immediately jumped up from his side of the table and slid into my booth. He took me in his arms and held me tightly as I sobbed and sobbed._

* * *

So of course I gave in. But that didn't mean I was no longer on my guard.

In fact, now that Derek and I were officially together, I ratcheted up to full alert. I was just waiting, looking for the slightest indication that he was losing interest, was taking me for granted, was returning to his former ways.

But months went by, and there was none of that.

There were plenty of other things, though. He surprised me with a long-weekend trip to the Bahamas after his play premiered. And then another to Paris to celebrate my birthday. I introduced him to my friends. I even met his mother when she was briefly in town.

He and I were becoming "us."

Derek reveled in spending time at my apartment, which seemed ridiculous at first, considering how much nicer his place was. But, of course, it all had to do with his happiness over being allowed into my private "inner sanctum," as he called it.

Once it had been explored to his satisfaction, though, he wanted me to move that inner sanctum to his place. But I refused. I wasn't ready for us to live together and wasn't sure I ever would be. I eased his disappointment with a key to my place.

Not only had I let Derek into my home, I was letting him into my head. Whenever he detected even a glimmer of my inner self, he latched on to it. And he wouldn't let go until I had bared that part of my soul, expressing to him who and why I was.

We became generous with one another in this way. And, to be honest, I really enjoyed it.

One morning we were in my bed, lounging in a little pillow talk. He had just regaled me with a story about a hilariously naughty prank he played on his roommate in school when he was ten.

"You were so bad!" I exclaimed in laughter.

"Oh, I paid for it," Derek replied with a slight smile. "I couldn't sit down for two days after the headmaster got ahold of me. He believed in beating the devil out of the child." I wasn't laughing anymore when he added in a mutter, "I think more often than not, he beat the devil _into_ the child."

Derek broke from his musing by giving me a smirk and trailing a fingertip along my naked hip.

"Of course, _you_ bring out the devil in me _all_ of the time," he murmured before he drew me into a long, deep kiss. I melted under his touch, as it expanded from his fingertip to his full, smooth, warm hand. A hand that roamed as it pleased on my thigh.

He soon ended our kiss and then propped his head on his hand, up on crooked elbow. It was obvious that Derek was in one of his talkative moods, and I knew he wouldn't let it go until we'd talked to his satisfaction.

"I've often wondered if school life would've been so harsh had girls been round."

"Oh, it probably would've been harsher," I lightly teased. "You just would've had more easy targets for your pranks."

"To the contrary, I'm sure they would have proven to be much more _difficult_ targets. Girls were such a mystery to me for so long. Of course, you still are, really," I thought he was moving in for another kiss, but it was a false alarm. "So what were you girls up to at that age?"

"I don't know," I replied. "All my friends at that age were boys."

"Already breaking hearts in primary school?"

"Maybe," I smirked, vaguely remembering stolen kisses on the playground. "But I think more than that, I wanted to be one of them."

"Why on earth would you want that? You obviously don't have any transgender issues," Derek pulled my nude body fully against his and ran his warm hand along several of my more choice curves.

He might have wanted conversation, but he was certainly doing his best to make it difficult. I promptly forgot his question as he followed up his caresses with a smothering kiss. When he finally broke it, I immediately urged him into another one as I began to move against him in a slow, sensuous grind.

"So, why?" he murmured as he broke this kiss as well, and lightly eased my hips away from his.

"Why, what?" I muttered in a daze as I pulled him back to me so I could nuzzle the crook of his neck.

"Why did you want to be one of them?" He gently nudged me away so that we were no longer touching.

"Oh, that," I could clearly see that he wasn't going to divert very far until we finished this thread.

"Well, let's see," I paused while I collected my thoughts. It was a bit unsettling how far and wide they had been scattered by our little encounter. This was nothing new, of course. Derek just had that kind of erotic power over me.

"I felt that girls got a bum rap," I explained. "I was raised in a really strict church that put females at the very bottom of the hierarchy. Who the hell wants to be there? So I desperately wanted to be a boy and openly fought the idea of being a girl. Of course, as I got older and found my way, I warmed up to the idea."

To emphasize that last thought, I snuggled right back against Derek and smoothly slid a hand along his ass. Then, with my hand firmly on his ass, I pressed it toward me and met his hips with my own—

Just as smoothly, Derek took me in another deep, but very brief, kiss. Then he edged away from me – yet again – so that he could look me in the face.

"But you didn't warm up enough to embrace – or even tolerate – traditional roles like cooking," Derek stated, referring way back to what he had discovered during one of our first dates.

"No," I acknowledged. "I guess I never could shake my distaste for much of anything labeled as 'women's work.'"

"What about motherhood?"

"Well, that's a bit of a different story," I hesitated, not trying to withhold, but worrying over how to proceed. Derek actually _needed_ to know this, so I pushed myself to continue. "I'll admit that for a while I viewed motherhood along these same lines. But I moved beyond that. I don't actually resist it. You see, I'm unable to have children."

"Oh, Darling," Derek's eyes expressed genuine sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"It's OK. Really. It wasn't for a while, but has been OK for quite a while now," I reassured him. "And the reason it wasn't OK for the most part probably isn't what you're thinking. When I found out, well, I couldn't help but feel guilty. There was a nagging at the back of my mind that God was punishing me. Punishing me for resisting his ordained lot in life for me as a female."

"Surely you don't believe that?"

"Well, no, of course not now. I know that idea is stupid – and it's really embarrassing to me. But I couldn't completely shake that guilty feeling for a long time, even after I'd moved past my upbringing. But it's OK now." I hesitated again. I couldn't exactly gauge his full reaction to this revelation. "It's OK … with you, isn't it?"

"Oh, gods, yes," Derek smiled as he slightly chuckled. "Me as a father? You must be kidding. It's definitely OK with me." Derek reached over and pulled me to him. With his lips at my ear, he softly added in his low rumble, "Marla, you – and everything about you – are OK with me."

* * *

It wasn't long after that pillow-talk session that Derek and Eileen decided enough time had passed since _Bombshell_ for them to embark on another musical venture.

And I thought I'd seen the worst of Derek's foul temperament with his play. His moods as well as his single-mindedness with this new production were of the likes I had never seen.

I think it was simply that he'd been alone for so long. He had been free from obligations to others and could devote his entire self to his work. During productions, he ate, slept and breathed his work, carrying its presence and burdens – and his resulting moods – with him all the time.

I carried on with my own life as usual, going out with friends, staying late at the office, spending some nights at my own place. In the meantime, I overlooked his outbursts, ignored his distracted silences, talked to him at length when he needed to mull over production problems out loud.

That was just Derek. I knew – generally, anyway – what I had signed on for with him. And I understood his needs to a great extent. After all, I had my own career to focus on, which at times dominated my life. His situation was just an extreme case. But we took it one day at a time and made it work.

We would go days sometimes without as much as a glimpse of each other. This was a problem only once in a while when we needed to communicate face to face about something important. And, fortunately, that didn't happen very often.

But such occasions did come along. One came along in the form of my lease. It was up for its two-year renewal, and I was seriously considering taking the plunge and moving in with Derek. It seemed like now was the time. But it was a big step for me, and I needed to talk to him about it in person.

Through texts, I let him know I needed to discuss something important with him, and he agreed to meet me for dinner. I made it as convenient for him as possible, choosing a restaurant near the studio where he could pop in and, if his schedule demanded, he could easily get back to work afterward.

He was a no show.

I was waiting for him, sitting stone-faced on his sofa, when he got home at midnight. All it took was a glance at the look on my face to stop him in his tracks.

"Oh, gods," he grimaced. "I forgot."

I didn't yell. I didn't pout. I didn't give him the silent treatment. But I did insist on talking about it.

"I don't think it was unreasonable of me to ask you to give me one evening – one _dinner _– to talk about something really important," I was careful to keep my voice level and under control. "Derek, I ask for just this one thing. This one important thing, and you can't even manage it? Would you call that being just a tad insensitive? Maybe even neglectful?"

"What was it about?"

When I told him, he was visibly relieved.

"Oh, that's a simple situation," he casually waved it off. "Take your time making this decision. I'll help you buy out your lease if you need to break it."

"That's not the _point!_"

"What do you want me to say, then?" Derek was now annoyed. And, in my opinion, he had no right to be annoyed.

"I'd like to at least get an apology out of you!"

"I am building something important with this production, Marla, and I am _not _going to apologize if it consumes me at times!" Derek was launching into one of his lectures about the sacrifices necessary for the sake of art, and I really wasn't in the mood for it.

"If you hadn't noticed, Derek," I furiously interrupted. "I've been incredibly patient and understanding through all of this, this _consuming_ the show has done to you. You don't hear me complaining when you drag in at ungodly hours or when you aren't here even when you're here. Good god, I've even ignored the persistent whispers that you and your leading lady—"

"You need to stop reading that bloody magazine you put out," he growled.

"Well, you can't be too cranky," I pointed out. "It's not as if assumptions like that are completely ungrounded."

"Now wait just one moment, Marla," Derek's bristled defensively, "I have done _nothing_—"

"That's not the issue," I held up my hand. "I'm not accusing you of any such thing. And, by the way, _fuck you_ – I don't work for a gossip rag."

After a glowering pause, I continued, "What I'm talking about here is your inability or _refusal _to put something – _someone_ – above your work, your_self_, for even _one evening_."

"I simply _forgot_, Marla."

"You _forgot?_ You have an assistant who keeps you on top of every minute of your schedule, and you _forgot?_"

"I'm not lying to you! My assistant had to take the day off, and I neglected to check my calendar!"

"OK, so you forgot," I replied. "You forgot to meet your girlfriend so she could talk to you about something that she told you in no uncertain terms was _important_. Thanks a lot. I amount to a little mark – a little _smudge_ – on your neglected calendar."

"Oh, _please!_"

"You have no idea how good you've got it," I went on. "A lot of women wouldn't put up with even a fraction of this. And just be glad there's not a kid in the mix," I added. "You couldn't neglect your calendar as much then."

"Fortunately, I have nothing to worry about there," he sneered. "_God_ has taken care of that little problem for me."

I stood there, stunned.

As the shock dissolved into something else – I'm not sure what – possible retorts flashed through my mind. I could pierce his black little heart with a snipe about how his mother's inability to love him like he needed to be loved maybe _was_ his fault after all. I could deliver a low blow about his father choosing everything else – career, money, other men – above Derek. I could shatter that fragile ego of his with a remark about how he'd better never fail – after all, he was only as good as his last project.

But why would I say such things? Why would I want to knock this man, who I cared for so very much, down to his emotional knees with such cruelty? Why would I turn on him with his deepest fears and pain? Those deepest fears and pain that he had entrusted me with knowing? _Why would he do such a thing to me?_

I almost laughed at the irony of the situation. How I wasn't suffering the expected infidelity from Derek. The one in which he fucks the leading lady while I'm faithfully waiting at home for him.

Instead, it was another infidelity. He had betrayed my trust with my emotional intimacy. I had told him my deepest, darkest self, and he had used it against me. Mocked me with it. Flung it in my face as a taunt.

I didn't reply. I simply turned my back and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" More than angry, Derek sounded startled.

I stopped in my tracks and turned toward him.

"_Where am I going?_" my voice was low and surprisingly steady. "That's none of your damn business anymore."

I menacingly took a few steps back toward Derek. "But I _will_ tell you where _you _have gone," I continued. "You have crossed a line, Derek. No. You have crossed _the_ line."

Before he could say anything, I was out the door.

* * *

**Only one more chapter to go! Thanks, everyone, for your reviews and PMs. I appreciate the enthusiasm and interest from you anonymous readers, too - with that, here's a special shout out of appreciation to A Shy Reader. ;) **


	14. Chapter 14

**Previously on:** I menacingly took a few steps back toward Derek. "But I _will_ tell you where _you _have gone," I continued. "You have crossed a line, Derek. No. You have crossed _the_ line."

Before he could say anything, I was out the door.

* * *

I was angry. And I rode that anger as long as I could. I didn't let up on it, because I didn't know what was beneath it. And I didn't want to face whatever that was.

But soon, the anger burned out and then my heart felt like the very life was being squeezed out of it. I could hardly breathe.

And during the moments when I could catch my breath, I cried.

As soon as I could, I arranged a business trip that took me out of town for a few days. I needed to at least remove myself from my life physically if I couldn't do so emotionally. And it helped. Distractions worked until I was lying in the dark, silent hotel room at night. Then the agony and the tears would overwhelm me.

I tried to comfort myself with the idea that at least _I_ had been the one to leave. At least I wasn't the one who had been left. But I felt no comfort from this. In fact, I felt nothing. My grief had dissolved and now I was simply numb.

And it was cloaked in that numbness that I returned home.

* * *

Only a day after I'd been back, Eileen was at my door.

"I just came from Derek's," she spoke as she stepped inside. "He was disheveled, smelling – no, _reeking_ of Scotch. I've never seen him such a mess."

"You've never seen him drunk before?"

"Well, yes, of course I've seen him drunk," Eileen replied. "But never despondent. And this past week, he's been … difficult and … unpredictable at rehearsals, to say the least. That is, when he shows up at all."

"So you're here to salvage the production," I stated testily. I had _had_ it with these Broadway people who always placed their work – _entertainment_, for god's sake – above all else.

But I had to admit that I was shocked to hear Derek had actually let his personal life interfere with his professional life.

"I do have a _heart_, you know," Eileen responded a bit testily herself. "Of course I'm concerned about the production, but I _am_ actually concerned about _you two_." With her tone a little milder, she added, "Immensely, as a matter of fact."

I sighed. "While we're on the subject of alcohol, would you like some?"

Eileen turned down my drink offer, but she took me up on my offer of the sofa, where we sat down together.

"He says that he can't find you anywhere," she continued. "That you've blocked his calls, won't reply to emails, changed your lock, won't open your door—"

"That about covers it."

"He said he's even, as he put it, 'fucking camped out on Marla's doorstep and fucking stalked the places she goes,' and hasn't as much as glimpsed you."

"So he dispatched you to track me down."

"I _offered_ to talk to you. He didn't ask," she responded. "In fact, he's pretty hopeless about it all. Thus the despondent, booze-reeking thing he's got going these days. Besides, I feel a bit to blame in this. I did encourage you to get involved with him, after all."

"Don't worry. I don't blame you," I replied. "You're guilty of being an accomplice in this crime of stupidity, but I'm the truly stupid one here."

"You're not stupid, Marla."

"Falling for Derek Wills? Yes, I _am_ stupid."

"Would you tell me what happened?" Eileen asked gently. "I mean, in general? I don't wish to pry."

"Basically, he used one of my most sensitive personal … weaknesses against me during an argument," I explained. "It was fucking abuse, and I can't – _won't_ – tolerate it."

"Marla, I'm sure he didn't really intend—"

"There are lines you just don't cross if you actually care about someone, Eileen. You cherish whatever intimacies someone shares with you. You don't turn them into a weapon to bludgeon that person. You have to know how to fight fair."

"I can certainly understand why you're upset," Eileen was speaking very carefully. "But don't you think that maybe you're being a little hard on him? I mean, surely you could at least try to talk this through—"

"There's nothing to talk about. He showed his true colors, and I want no part of it."

"We all have said things that we shouldn't in the heat of the moment," Eileen delicately pointed out.

"They weren't just thoughtless words blurted out in anger. He went straight for my jugular. He knew _exactly_ where to stab," I was getting worked up, so I paused to collect myself before I continued. "As you know, I originally took Derek as nothing but a great lay. I knew better than to get emotionally involved with a womanizer, much less a professional manipulator. That's why I withheld myself from him for so long. But then I let myself be lured into trusting him. How could I be so stupid? I _knew_ I couldn't trust him with my – my … heart. All he did was use it against me."

"Marla," Eileen proceeded to choose her words thoughtfully. "Derek doesn't understand these things very well on a personal level. Professionally, he's brilliant with it. He's always searching for the heart and how he can best use those qualities in a performer to create a success— "

"He can't use that cold calculation in his personal relationships and expect _them_ to be smash hits," I passionately interrupted. "Obviously, it doesn't work that way. I'm not a performer, and I'm not going to let myself be used, much less abused."

"You're absolutely right," Eileen responded delicately to my heated words. "And I'm not encouraging you to put up with it. What I'm trying to say is that it's his _instinct_ to be this way. He doesn't really know any other way to operate—"

"Well, then, all the more reason not to be a part of this," I interrupted yet again. "I don't want that kind of person in my life. Why would I want someone who's always _instinctively_ studying me for ammunition to use against me?"

"The most important thing here," Eileen patiently continued with her train of thought, "is that he's _wanting _to operate differently. He _wants_ to change. He's learning. And he's willing – _wanting_ – to keep learning."

"How do you know that?"

"Derek knows what he did was wrong," she spoke even more carefully now. "Marla, the Derek I used to know – the man he _used_ to be – would hardly ever admit to being wrong about anything. And the man he is now fully realizes that he's wrong and says so in no uncertain terms. In fact, he said so to me just tonight," Eileen let her words sink in before she continued. "He's in despair, Marla. He _hates_ himself right now. I truly have never seen him like this before. He's convinced that he's driven away the best thing that's ever happened to him."

It was as if a bucket of water had been thrown on my raging fire. I sat there for a moment, collecting my thoughts and my feelings. Now, instead of my words sounding intense and angry, they just sounded tired.

"It's all wrong, anyway," I sighed weakly. "He's so moody and self-absorbed. God, he's just so _difficult_. Besides, a man with his kind of history just can't be trusted."

"People can and _do_ change, you know. We've had this conversation before," Eileen spoke gently but firmly. "He learned some tough lessons through _Bombshell_."

"And what were those lessons, exactly?" I asked, some testiness returning to my tone. "Because he definitely didn't learn how to be even-tempered or selfless or sensitive."

"No, he didn't," Eileen agreed. "And I don't think he'll ever learn how to be those things. That's just not him. He'll eternally be caustic and moody and manipulative and self-centered at times.

"But I know what a magnificent man he is, and I know that you're even more familiar with that magnificence. And isn't all that worth some struggle? I know that you, of all people, are up for the challenge of handling Derek Wills."

"I don't know," I groaned. "I thought I was up for it, too, at one time. But after this … He just went too far, Eileen."

"Please," Eileen urged. "Just think about it. Think about him in this new light. Derek realizes full well that he screwed up."

* * *

A few hours later, there was a knocking at my door that quickly gave way to banging. I stayed put on the sofa. This had happened earlier in the week, so I quietly sat there, hoping Derek would think I wasn't home and just go away.

But then a slurred shouting began to accompany the banging.

"_Marla! Lemme in, Darling! Pleeeeease!_"

This was taking drunk calling to a whole new level.

"_Marla! I dinn't mean to hurt you, Darling! I don't mean to be a wanker – I'm juss bloody not good at this. But I can do better! I will! I need you so! So, sssoooo much! C'mon! Pleeeeease!_"

The pounding was even louder now, if that was possible.

"_I apolo-apologize, Marla! I'm so vulneb … vulnerb … vul-ner-able with you, I'd die if you used that 'gainst me like I did you!_"

Oh, God. What he was shouting was getting more and more personal. Soon, the neighbors would have a complete, drunken record of my recent love life.

I had to shut him up, and fast.

"_I'm ssssoooo sorry, Marla! Pleeeease_—"

I ran over and opened the door. He must have been leaning his full weight against it, because he literally fell into my apartment, stumbling over himself and landing flat on his face on the floor.

"Are you OK?" I exclaimed as I rushed over and knelt down beside him. There was no answer, so I gently rolled him over onto his back. I could see that he was fine, just stunned.

But even after a few moments, he still didn't say anything. He just stared up at me, slack jawed.

God, he was a total mess. His hair was wild – and not stylishly, either; his eyes were bleary, his scruff a couple days' worth too long, and his gray shirt was rumpled and spotted with several unidentifiable stains.

I tugged on the front of his shirt, urging him to sit up. Then I stood and pulled on his arm to haul him to his feet. He was unsteady, but he was able to stagger to his feet with my help. How in the world was he able to make it to my apartment on his own?

With his arm draping my shoulders and my arm around his waist, I led him, stumbling, into the bedroom and helped him lie down on the bed. I slipped his shoes and socks off, but it was a struggle to get his pants off. After I finally tugged them from his long legs, I gave up and left him in his shorts and that miserable shirt.

Not a word was spoken between us. He just lay motionless on the bed, staring up at me with his mouth slightly open.

"I'm sorry," he finally spoke, croaking out the words after he drank the glass of water and took the three aspirins I gave him.

"Tomorrow," I said.

Then I watched him drink another glass of water before he passed out in my bed.

* * *

I woke up with him lying beside me, facing me and staring at me like he had last night. At least he wasn't slack jawed anymore. I just looked back at him in the dim morning light.

He still looked awful. Now dark circles were prominent under his eyes, giving him a look of utter despondence.

"I'm sorry," were his first words, in that rumbling morning voice of his. He swallowed hard before he spoke again. "I'm sorry for barging in on you last night. I'm … I'm just sorry for _everything_."

I had been numb for so long now. But here, looking at him, with that vulnerable, pleading expression on his face, I was suddenly flooded with feeling.

I knew he was a bastard. I knew he was difficult and arrogant and exhausting. But, God, _how_ he was brilliant and sexy and funny and beautiful. And fucking irresistible. As I gazed at him, my heart began to swell, and my breath caught in my throat.

My thoughts and feelings were all too strong to sort through right now. I just let them come.

I reached over and touched the side of his face. His eyes closed and he warmly enclosed my wrist with his hand, which he then moved to his lips. He pressed his mouth to my hand and held it there, his eyes still closed, his grip desperate.

I scooted over to him and wrapped my arm around him and pulled him close to me. He still reeked of Scotch, but I didn't care. I threaded my fingers into his messy hair and drew his head into the crook of my neck. And then we just held each other.

I felt so calm. Even through the Scotch, I could detect his scent. I closed my eyes and inhaled him. He was so warm. And he was … shaking. Long, intense shudders that, when he took a breath, were suddenly accompanied by deep, wrenching sobs.

Derek was sobbing in my arms. I was stunned, but I pulled him tighter to me and buried my face in his hair, kissing it and stroking my hand across his back. I didn't know what to say, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't want me to say anything anyway.

I just held him and silently soothed him until he calmed. He didn't move for a long time. He stayed pressed into me, clutching my body against him like his life depended on it.

When he finally released me and rolled back to lie on the pillow, his eyes were streaming and his nose red. He quickly swiped a wretched shirt sleeve across his face. I reached over and pulled out some Kleenex from the nightstand on my side. While he used it to clean himself up, I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off of him.

When he was finished, I eased over next to him and looking into his eyes, I soothingly stroked his face, his neck, his chest and shoulders. He stared at me silently, breathing deeply. Then he closed his eyes as I did my work, gently running my hands and fingertips all over his upper body. I finally felt him relax beneath my hands.

I leaned closer and kissed his lips and cradled his face in my hands.

"I love you, Derek."

His eyes flew open and stared at me. Then he reached out and tightly pressed me against him, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.

"_Oh, God, Marla. I love you, too_."

* * *

**So there you have it. I hope you've enjoyed my story. I'd love to hear your reactions and feedback, so please drop me a review or PM. Thanks for reading.**


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